


howling and half hid

by unpossible



Series: Building Something [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Kid Fic, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Pack Family, Pack Feels, References to Abortion, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpossible/pseuds/unpossible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sheriff has had some long, disturbing talks with Deaton, as well as the shaman who did Stiles’ tattoo, and the Stilinski house is now awash with mountain ash beams for boarding up doors and windows, and protective runes carved on the roof beams at the four compass points. Stiles suspects his Dad also stocked up on rock salt, just in case <em>Supernatural</em> turns out to be a documentary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Again, many thanks to Piscaria for beta work. There's still lots of room for me to make mistakes during the rewrite, though, which are totally my own fault.
> 
> I am painfully aware I have very possibly messed up the chemical 'facts' in this chapter, since my entire knowledge of this area would not even fill one segment of Mythbusters. If you have criticisms, please be kind.

 

_“Do you smell that?”_ Derek’s voice is urgent, like Stiles has never heard it outside of an actual fight or kidnapping. But he’s not on alert, isn’t shoving Stiles into the Jeep so it’s not a threat. And then he’s running, right across Main Street, without regard for Friday afternoon traffic.

“Derek, you were almost run over by an armoured va- _Derek?”_ And then Stiles sighs, because Derek’s not here anymore. He’s off, running, because apparently that’s a thing people do. They run off in the middle of conversations with Stiles, without a word. He shrugs, loads the last two bags into the Jeep and drives out to the Hale house with them before ten gallons of ice-cream melts all over his interior. _Someone_ has to do the practical shit with groceries and that person, apparently, is Stiles.

Derek doesn’t get back for over half an hour, and his brow is still furrowed like a worrying sourwolf when he does. The pack greet him exuberantly, then settle back in front of the tv. “Enjoy your Mommy Daddy time,” Erica snarks as Derek paces into the kitchen.

“You okay, babe?” Stiles asks, a little absently, browning hamburger in the skillet and texting Scott with his free hand. Derek’s not in circle-the-wagons mode, Stiles recognizes that from a mile away. He’s more... emotional over something. And a heartbeat later Stiles thinks, _wow, I’m a shitty boyfriend._ Upset _isn’t enough to get my attention, it has to be_ dangerous?

He turns off the skillet and puts down his phone, crosses to the window seat where Derek is brooding. He never sits there, but he stands beside it and thinks a lot, Stiles has noticed.

“Weird smell, huh?” he prompts.

Derek looks... vulnerable. Something in the line of his throat, the hands pressed flat against his thighs. He moves his head a little, not quite a shake, not a nod either.

“Did you find where it came from?”

Definite shake this time.

“What did it smell like? Anything to do with the fires, you think?”

Derek shakes his head firmly. “It was,” he clears his throat, blinks a few times. “Something from a long time ago.” Then he turns his head, focuses on Stiles. Shakes his head again, “I’m probably remembering it wrong,” he says slowly, and leans in to press his face to Stiles’ throat. He breathes, deliberately deep and even, and Stiles brings a hand up to cup the back of his head.

Derek’s hand slides down Stiles’ right arm to the inside of his wrist. He strokes his thumb over the small triskelion tattoo that is finally healed, and a familiar warmth blooms in Stiles’ chest at the touch. He can feel Derek’s melancholy, the aching loss that’s always underneath, and the tight bands of fresh panic that loosen with every indrawn breath of Stiles’ scent.

“Yeah, babe,” he says quietly, “I’m here.”

 

***

 

His Dad calls that night because there’s another fire, at the hospital - again, and that makes five in four weeks, all over Beacon Hills. An apartment building, a car, a spot in the woods, the hospital car park and now the long-term care ward. No trace of a perpetrator and no pattern they can discern, either. The Sheriff is finally, reluctantly, prepared to admit there might be a supernatural cause to this.

“Can we do it tonight?” Stiles’ Dad is asking. “The later the better. I’ll bring the files with me, and we can visit the sites in reverse order, in case there’s still some...” he trails off, not quite comfortable. On the other side of the room, Boyd is stacking the dishwasher with his usual quiet efficiency while Isaac stows the leftovers in the fridge.

“Scent, Dad, you can say it,” Stiles rolls his eyes and tells the phone, set to speaker. Derek’s lips twitch. “Doesn’t make Derek your sniffer dog.”

They exchange a glance that contains the rueful acknowledgement that there will be no nooky this evening – well, that’s what Stiles’ eyebrows say, anyway, Derek’s are saying _stop using that stupid word_ – and that this is a good step forward in the whole ‘accepting the supernatural’ thing.

“I can drop in to Deaton’s, then,” he offers, “practise some more of those defensive spells, and he can check the tattoo.” Derek gives him a look that says _I see what you did there_ , and Stiles shrugs, because his Dad is very _very_ on board with Stiles learning how to defend himself, by any means at his disposal.

He did _not_ take the Gerard Argent story well. Stiles also has a provisional gun license now, and a stock of wolfsbane bullets his Dad monstered out of Chris Argent after putting the fear of Stilinski into the man.

The Sheriff has had some long, disturbing talks with Deaton, as well as the shaman who did Stiles’ tattoo, and the Stilinski house is now awash with mountain ash beams for boarding up doors and windows, and protective runes carved on the roof beams at the four compass points. Stiles suspects his Dad also stocked up on rock salt, just in case _Supernatural_ turns out to be a documentary.

“Good,” his Dad says immediately. “Great. And then homework.” Because his dad is _the_ _devil_.

 

***

 

Stiles is trying very hard to breathe. Breathing is good, it’s so good, it’s his favourite thing to do apart from maybe blow jobs, but then there may not be any blow jobs in his future if he can’t focus and that is _just not acceptable_ , that is not-

The plastic bottle to his left tips itself over and begins to spill its contents onto the floor and that is just fucking eerie, okay? Bottles tipping over without any visible cause...

“All right,” Stiles says, breathing through his mouth to avoid the overpowering sweet smell of the liquid and keeping one hand pressed to the head wound that is dripping blood in his eye. “Okay. Ghost it is.” It takes a lot of effort to stand up, only the streetlight outside providing any kind of visibility, but the room he’s in is small. Really small.

He wobbles in a circle and tries to figure out where the hell Deaton could be and why a ghost haunting the clinic would target _Stiles_ , of all people. Also, and more importantly, where the _fuck_ is the door?

There’s another soft thunk as _another_ container of fluid tips over and glugs its contents all over the floor and onto the crumpled white fabric he’d been lying on when he came to. It’s a uniform of some kind, he thinks. The smell is getting stronger. That’s bad.

He stumbles forward one step and falls against the door, landing on his knees and one free hand in something gritty that’s covering the storeroom floor. He shakes it off and reaches up for the handle, which, inevitably, will not turn.

“Stiles?” he hears the shout on the other side of the door. Deaton, thank fuck.

“Here,” he yells, and winces as the sound seems to split his skull in two. His breath is getting laboured, there’s no ventilation in this room, and the stuff on his hand-

He turns his head to stare at the liquid tipping all over the floor. _All those fires. No sign of a perpetrator_.

 _“Deaton,”_ he yells through the door, “is there anything in this room that shouldn’t be mixed with anti-freeze?”

The short silence that follows is _not good_.

“Deaton?”

“Mark, it’s Deaton. You need to get to the clinic, now. Stiles is in trouble.”

 _“DEATON!”_ And _ouch_. Yelling fucking _hurts._

“Stiles, don’t worry, I’m going to get you out of there.”

“Don’t _worry?_ You know I can hear you, right? With the SOS phone calls?” he coughs weakly and turns his back to the door as his legs give out and he hits the floor.

Breathing’s getting harder, but his mind is suddenly very clear. Dad and Derek. He stares down at his hand again. He can’t quite see the color, but he’s pretty sure he knows what these crystals are.

Potassium permanganate. And antifreeze. Oh _fuck_. Harris would be thrilled and amazed at Stiles’ knowledge of chemistry right now, because he is suddenly remembering a youtube video he’d watched in all its terrible glory.

“It’s a _ghost_ ,” he manages to shout. “A ghost is setting the fires. And I’m on the menu, apparently.” That last one was probably too quiet for Deaton to hear, it’s getting really hard to breathe, now and he slowly lowers his right hand from his head, staring down at all the blood. It trickles down his wrist and over the tattoo. _Oh Derek_ , he thinks. Fuck. And _Dad_. _This will. This will kill them_.

There’s some serious thumping and smashing at his back as Deaton attacks the door, but it won’t open, Stiles knows that much. Whatever spirit is here, it is not about to let him go. He lowers his head, it’s hurting like a _bitch,_ and rests his forehead on his knees. He struggles to draw in another breath.

He circles his right wrist with his left hand and feels a wave of love and regret sweep through him, presses so hard on the tattoo he can feel his thumb grinding against the bones in his arm.

Fire. Again. _Derek,_ he thinks, _shit, I’m so sorry, so sorry, if I could change this, I wish..._

 _“Stiles,”_ Deaton shouts furiously, still battering at the door, “Stiles, _answer me_.”

A wave of panic that’s not his own swamps him and then a fierce rage of love and protectiveness rockets through his body. Stiles hears the _whoosh_ of a flame igniting from close by and let his eyes close as the world turns strangely blue.

_I wish..._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek has clearly come out of this experience worse than anyone. Stiles’ Dad was freaked out, sure, and is hovering in any space Derek accidentally leaves open. But _Derek_.
> 
> Derek is at a whole other level. Derek’s broody eyebrows have gone _pro_.

 

 

Stiles surfaces slowly to familiar sounds and smells, mixed in with some seriously unpleasant new ones. “A protective barrier,” his father is saying, voice shaking. “Magic. You’re _serious._ Magic can do _that?_ ” His hand is resting flat on Stiles back, grounding and comforting both.

“He’s bound to an alpha wolf,” Deaton replies, and his voice hasn’t quite regained its usual coolness, but he’s doing better than the rest of them. There’s still the smell of smoke in the air and Stiles refuses to open his eyes. “Not by the bite or by blood, but by _choice_. That’s some of the most powerful magic in this world.”

“So he can’t _die?”_ Dad asks, stunned.

“Oh, I don’t think it’s quite that extreme,” Deaton says quietly. “I’m sure Stiles is still as mortal as any of us. But if he has the capacity or opportunity to access his link to Derek, I would say he could withstand a great deal more severe injuries than most humans, and still recover. If we hadn’t been able to get him out, of course, his shield would have eventually failed, and-”

“That’s enough,” Derek says harshly. _“Enough.”_

The alpha’s shaking. Wrapped around Stiles like a vice and he’s still shaking. That gets Stiles’ eyes to open. Beyond Derek’s shoulder Stiles catches a glimpse of Peter, likely unsettled by the scent of smoke and Derek’s clear panic. He’s flipping wildly through the Sheriff’s files and getting paler with each one.

Stiles closes his eyes, exhausted. Lets the familiar scent of Derek, the sound of his Dad’s voice carry him away from the sirens in the distance.

 

***

 

So Stiles apparently foiled the arsonist. That’s the story he wakes up to, anyway. In the hospital. Stumbled on someone setting a fire at the clinic (true-ish), got clocked on the head (true) for his troubles and compounded that with some serious fume inhalations (also true). The firestarter got clean away, according to the Sheriff’s department, and there was only minor damage to Deaton’s storeroom.

He’s kind of a hero.

He’s also kind of under house arrest and the subject of some extremely unsubtle, if loving, stalking. He’s yet to be alone, excepting bathroom breaks. The ten minute periods Derek can spare from his bedside to eat and change clothes are being covered by Scott, or Scott and the rest of the pack. His Dad is apparently killing himself to sort things out at the station so he can take time off to be with Stiles around the clock when he gets home.

“Wait,” Stiles says unsteadily. “Nurse _Jennifer?_ ”

“Apparently,” Lydia says, with an arch of her perfect eyebrow. “All the places the fires started were related to her and Peter. It was her old apartment-”

“And the hospital, twice,” Stiles says, nodding.

“In the woods, where he killed her,” Isaac says, low.

“And the car was the one Peter dumped her body in,” Lydia says. Her face is hard. Peter’s apology did jack shit for their relationship, she still avoids him like the plague. Stiles gets it. He still worries, though.

“She got the triskele picture of the deer from Deaton’s remember? To send to Laura,” Scott adds, watching Stiles with concern.

Stiles probably looks pale. He _feels_ pale.

“Maybe telling you wasn’t such a great idea,” Scott adds.

“No, I needed to know,” he says absently. Deaton can handle the exorcism, surely. He can. It’s not like Stiles could help in his current condition, anyway.

“Well, yeah,” Scott says, “but did you need to know _now?”_

“I always need to know these things yesterday, Scott. You know that,” Stiles manages. And then he’s out of breath. Jeez, he hates these lingering symptoms.

“Whatever, Stilinski,” Jackson says without turning from his spot by the window. “Don’t think Finstock’s going to give a crap about any of this come training on Thursday.”

“Jackson,” Stiles says fondly, “You always know just what to say. It’s why you’ll always be my favourite douchebag.”

 

***

 

Going home is- _weird_. Derek is all carefully-not-smothering while simultaneously managing to witness every inhale and exhale of Stiles’ puny human lungs, and any and all changes to his heartbeat. It’s the most aggressive form of gentle caring Stiles has ever witnessed, and judging by the dance his Dad’s eyebrows do, its hilarious and freaky to non-bonded humans as well.

But. He’s not exactly going to complain. Head wound and shaky lungs aside, Derek has clearly come out of this experience worse than anyone. Stiles’ Dad was freaked out, sure, and is hovering in any space Derek accidentally leaves open. But _Derek_.

Derek is at a whole other level. Derek’s broody eyebrows have gone _pro_.

It’s the fire thing. Stiles knows this. Wasn’t it his last thought before he passed out? _If I have to die, just don’t let it be by fire_. Man. This protective love thing is _intense_.

At any rate, the three of them mangle their way through the hours left in the day, have a silent and awkward dinner where two of the people at the table stare intensely at every bite the third person manages to choke down, and keep knocking their hands together in an attempt to anticipate if Stiles needs the salt, or some more water, or maybe milk- _would milk be better for his throat? Hey, no, not pepper are you crazy you want to irritate his sinuses, we should have had soup, I knew pasta was a bad idea, well pasta is smooth and slippery-_

And all of this is accomplished with fierce glares and half-whispers and aborted gestures, like Stiles isn’t sitting right there and witnessing their bizarre power struggle-slash-bonding over inept nursemaiding.

_My life is so weird_ , Stiles tells the kitchen ceiling silently, while Derek and his Dad hiss at each other about the healing properties of ice-cream.

Bedtime is even weirder. Derek needs to be with Stiles, he can feel that through the bond.

The painkillers have been muffling the emotional bleed-through all day, but this is too strong to hide. He _needs_ it, on some wolfy level that goes way beyond the whole stalker-boyfriend dynamic Stiles is really going to have to address at some point. Maybe Allison can give him some pointers on that.

This need, however, goes smashing straight into the Wall of Stilinski.

“Derek will be fine on the couch,” Dad says firmly. “He can check on you no more than once an hour, for five minutes.” His arms are folded and everything. He _means_ this.

Derek is suddenly incredibly tense, but is absolutely not about to fight Stiles’ Dad in his own den. That’s totally what he’s thinking, Stiles doesn’t even have to ask.

“Dad-”

“And tomorrow we can have a nice long talk about Peter Hale, multiple murderer, and how the two of you knew he was still alive and in Beacon Hills and did not see fit to tell me.”

Stiles sighs. Yeah. _Shit_. He’d known the Peter stuff was going to bite him in the ass. He just hadn’t been able to figure out a way to explain Peter to Dad. Peter was- Peter was the dictionary entry for _complicated_.

“Derek sleeps on the couch or he can go home and brood there. Those are the choices.”

Stiles stares at his Dad, dejected and exhausted. If his head didn’t hurt so much he’d be able to summon an argument. Instead he glances helplessly at Derek, who just steps close and ushers Stiles into bed in the least sexy way ever, like he’s a sleepy five year old. There is _tucking in_.

“Did you do this for them? For Andrew and Emma and Jacob?” he asks drowsily, without thinking. _So tired_.

Derek’s hands freeze. “Sometimes,” he finally says, after a very long time. “Emma liked me to rub her back when she was sick or had a bad dream. Andrew liked it when we scratched his belly, very lightly with our claws. Jacob was always the more independent one.”

“Mmm,” Stiles agrees, almost totally gone. “Nice.”

Just before he slides into unconsciousness he feels Derek’s nose touch his throat, hears a desperate whimper of terror and loss that follows him into his dreams.

 

 

***

 

 

Stiles’ eyes shoot open in a totally unnatural awakening. He’s panting, heart racing, and as he half-falls out of bed he can’t figure out why. It’s not a panic attack, he knows those all too well, it’s-

“Derek,” his Dad’s voice says from the hallway. “Stiles, something’s wrong with Derek.”

“Fuck,” he says, and scrambles for the stairs in an ungainly heap. “I _knew_ it and then I just fell asleep.”

“Also,” his Dad says as they reach the entryway, “our yard is full of adolescent werewolves.”

“What?”

He jerks a thumb toward the window and Stiles hesitates for just long enough to glance outside. Holy _shitballs_. The entire pack is ranged along their lawn, eyes gleaming odd colors in the streetlights. They’re just _standing there_ like natural-born creepers, but he can see the movement of their flanks, breathing far too rapid, far too shallow. Derek’s panic must be affecting them too, he’s amazed they haven’t just battered down the door to get at him.

“Shit. Just- let ‘em in,” he says throwing his hands up in defeat, and flings himself toward the couch.

Derek isn’t flailing or moaning or anything so ordinary. He’s rigid, every line of his body clenched in suffering, and he doesn’t react at all when Stiles shakes him, calls his name, curls over him in sudden fear. He can feel the heat of the pack at his back and when he glances up, it’s Erica’s face he sees first. “I can’t wake him,” he says helplessly.

She’s white as a sheet, clawed hand buried in Boyd’s arm and she says, “Derek,” loud and angry, like that will help. There’s a chorus, suddenly, of Derek’s name in various tones of scared/beseeching/furious. No reaction at all.

“What’s happening?” it’s his Dad, on the other side of the couch.

“I don’t know,” Stiles shoots at him, “I don’t fucking _know_. I just know that he needed me, and you sent him away.”

His Dad startles back and Stiles closes his eyes.

“Shit, sorry.” That wasn’t exactly fair. His Dad had no way of knowing what bad shape Derek was in, _Stiles_ had known, Stiles had _felt_ it, and he’d fallen asleep and for good measure, invoked the ghosts of Derek’s fucking family just before he’d passed out. “I just-”

“Stiles.” It’s a new voice, and they all turn toward the front door, still wide open. The silhouette there is no teenager, and Stiles is amazed at the relief he suddenly feels.

“Peter,” he says. “God, what do we do?”

“Sheriff,” Peter says, still on the porch. “May I come in?”

There’s a long, hard silence. “Peter Hale,” his Dad grits out. “On my doorstep.”

Peter doesn’t move. It’s like every vampire cliché in every movie and they don’t have time for this. _“Dad,”_ Stiles says sharply.

He lets out a furious breath and says grudgingly, “Come in.”

And then Peter’s just _there_ , right next to Stiles, one hand on Derek’s face and another lifting his hand into the low light coming in the window. Hand. Not claws.

“Is he- he’s dreaming?” Stiles asks.

“It’s a bit beyond a dream,” Peter says. “More like... a flashback, I suppose. One he can’t get out of.”

“Of the fire,” Stiles says.

“It’s likely more complicated than that. I’m fairly sure wherever he is, you’re there as well, if you know what I mean.”

“I know,” Stiles says. Fuck, he _knows_. Stiles and fire. _Family_ and fire and death and loss and fire and Stiles and _grief_. The sound Derek had made as Stiles had fallen asleep, ah God, please _please_.

“Give him some room, please,” Peter said. The pack back away, ranging themselves around the room and Boyd, at least, has the brains to make the rounds, closing and locking the front door, closing the drapes to give them privacy from anyone driving the street at ass o'clock. Dad turns on a lamp or two and they stare blankly at each other in the soft glow.

“What if you slap him?” Jackson suggests, low-level desperate. “Wake him up that way.”

“Worth a try,” Peter says, and glances over his shoulder at Stiles. “You should move as far away as possible, both of you,” his eyes flick up to the Sheriff. “This is a job for someone less... breakable.”

“My scent will calm him,” Stiles argues.

“Not if he’s accidentally clawed you to ribbons,” Peter replies, implacable. “Your scent is very clear right now Stiles, but it’s not helping. He’s too far gone for that. In fact it’s probably just reinforcing that whatever he thinks is happening, it’s real. Please.”

Stiles gets to his feet reluctantly and backs away, his Dad does the same. Isaac drifts closer until he’s between Stiles and the couch and Stiles reaches up to grip the back of his neck without thinking. Some of the terrible tension goes out of Isaac at the touch and he whines in the back of his throat just as Peter raises his hand.

He _punches_ Derek, no gentlemanly slap, and the alpha’s face snaps sideways on his neck. Stiles’ flinches, his Dad swears and takes a step forward and Derek- he _whines_ , high and panicked in his throat. It’s the first sound he’s made.

“Derek,” Stiles calls, he can’t help himself and the alpha whimpers, claws suddenly appearing.

It’s horrible progress, but it’s progress. Stiles watches Peter’s head bow down, like some terrible weight pressing him into the ground and then he takes a breath, turns his head and meets Stiles’ dad’s eyes. “Do you have,” he licks his lips, “any matches?”

_“No,”_ Stiles says, and steps forward. Isaac goes with him, keeping his body between Stiles and everyone else.

“Scent is our strongest sense, Stiles,” Peter says quietly. He sounds _awful_. “We can’t help him until we can wake him.” He turns, finally, and meets Stiles’ eyes. Then he says very slowly, “You have no idea how much I don’t want to do this.”

Stiles nods, once, and turns away. He catches his Dad’s eye and they stare at one another for a long moment. His Dad looks startled, worried and still furious. But he lets out a short sharp breath and disappears into the kitchen.

He comes out, bearing a box of matches and a short fat candle from their emergency kit. He hands them to Peter like they’re contaminated with the plague, and the rest of the pack are clinging together, whining now. Stiles can only imagine the scent of panic and distress that must be coming from Peter now, as well as Derek. Isaac is panting hard, open-mouthed.

Peter’s shoulders move in a long, slow breath as he strikes the match, his eyes fixed warily on Derek’s face. Derek twitches, claws lengthening, but nothing else. Stiles can see Peter in profile, his face moves in what is probably a grimace, and then he lights the candle. He shakes out the match and drops it on the coffee table, picks up the candle in an unsteady hand,  then glances up at the Sheriff. “I apologize in advance for what might happen to your sofa,” he says, sounding for just a second like an extremely shaky version of the old Peter, from before he died. And then he moves the candle to beneath his forearm, lets the flame lick at his skin.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> “I’m not here to cause any trouble,” Argent says, and Stiles frowns, heart already racing. Because Mr-I-Live-By-the-Code looks pretty damn rocky, like the drive out to the Hale house was some kind of death row walk. Oh for crying out loud, what _now?_ Alien invasion? Zombies? Fucking _zombie aliens?_

 

 

 

Derek _roars_.

Even _Stiles_ flinches at it, grief and fury and fear compressed into a raw chunk of sound. Faster than the eye can see Derek surges up, claws out, and then it’s all blood and pain and cries of shock and warning.

When it’s over, Peter is bleeding heavily all over the scorched rug, and the coffee table is history. Derek takes one comprehensive look around the room and flings himself – away from Stiles, as far away as he can get, crouched in the corner of the entryway, panting heavily and staring at the pack.

“Derek,” Stiles calls softly, leaning around Isaac, who has him pressed firmly against the wall, claws up to fend of anything that comes their way. “Derek, babe, it’s okay. I’m okay. There’s no fire.”

“I smelled, I saw,” he pants out, frantic, “I _smelled_ -”

“Peter was just trying to wake you up. Dick move, I know, but you were freaking us out, sourwolf.”

There’s silence then, except for the panting breaths. None of the pack have moved since Derek woke, though they begin to whine, softly, as the first panic passes.

“Hey, can I. Can I come over there?”

Derek shakes his head instinctively. “I’m not. Safe.”

“You are always safe for me,” Stiles says. _“Always.”_

“There was a fire,” Derek says, like he can’t let it go, and Stiles can’t stop the small noise he makes, pushing hard against Isaac, who does not move at all.

“I’m not burned. I swear. You’d be able to smell it if I was in pain, right?”

The alpha nods, once, still hesitant, and Stiles slumps against the wall, trying to think. “How about- the pack, then, can they?”

Derek thinks that over for a while. His breathing has steadied, and after a long moment he nods, once. It’s as though Dumbledore just waved his wand and undid a _Petrificus Totalus_ because they all move in the same moment, a flood of panicked wolves flowing toward their alpha and Derek disappears under the pile.

Stiles lets out a long, shaky breath and meets his Dad’s concerned gaze. This was possibly not the best introduction to fighting supernatural bad guys, and associated trauma.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says anyway. Worth a shot. “We’ll all be okay. We’re better together,” he adds, because Dad may have accepted the Derek-and-Stiles thing, but he is not at all on board with _pack_ , Stiles has noticed. He hasn’t had a whole lot of chances to observe them, in all fairness. But this is _not_ how Stiles would have chosen to start.

Dad’s staring at the puppy pile in his hallway with thoughtful, if confused, eyes. “Huh,” is all he says.

“Derek?” Stiles turns that way too, hopeful. Because he is _dying_ over here. He _needs_ to touch Derek, needs his guy to breathe Stiles in and just- unclench.

One strong, bare arm appears out of the pile and beckons Stiles over with a fully human hand. He sobs out a half-laugh and runs toward it, and a second later he’s engulfed in a lot of extremely warm, pajama clad flesh. He accidentally kicks someone in the stomach the way and knees someone else in the throat getting settled – hopefully that was Jackson – but he doesn’t care. He grabs Derek and just _hangs on_ , hard enough to bruise a human, and the alpha makes this tiny helpless huff against his throat.

_“I’m here, babe, I’m here, I’m here, won’t leave you, it’s okay, we’re all here, everyone’s fine...”_ he just mumbles and rocks, not even caring what he says or who hears because he _needs this_ , just as much as any wolf. There’s heat and safety at his back, along his arm, pinning his hips and it’s the best he’s felt in days. He hears footsteps and turns his head, watches his father step around the end of the couch, eyes angled down at the floor.

“I was wrong,” Peter says, still lying on his back amidst the splinters on the living room floor. “I should have apologized for the coffee table instead.”

“I guess so,” Stiles’ dad says, staring down at Peter. His face is unreadable.

 

 

 

The one good thing about the whole mess – apart from the new rug – is that Stiles’ Dad makes no argument when Stiles announces he and Derek are going away for a weekend. He gives Stiles a long, thoughtful look, then nods once. After all, Stiles is eighteen now, any and all legal objections have disappeared, and apparently so have the emotional ones.

The one bad thing? Is that Erica has apparently decided to adopt the Sheriff in Stiles’ (brief) absence and took over the Stilinski remote. She’s got him watching _Bunheads_ , for fuck’s sake.

“This is like the end of the world,” Stiles moans dramatically. “It’s the ballerina apocalypse.”

Derek huffs out a laugh and pretends he isn’t still watching Stiles like he’s the last Godiva in the box. He’s a lot less anxious, now, than he was last week. But blind panic like that is slow to fade, especially when you know, from bitter experience, that you _can_ lose what you love the most. That it can all be gone, just like that.

 

***

 

“I’m not here to cause any trouble,” Argent says, and Stiles frowns, heart already racing. Because Mr-I-Live-By-the-Code looks pretty damn rocky, like the drive out to the Hale house was some kind of death row walk. Oh for crying out loud, what _now?_ Alien invasion? Zombies? Fucking _zombie aliens?_

From the inside the creepy black SUV Allison is sending a pleading look their way, and thank God Scott isn’t here to mess things up even more by splashing his emotions all over the place. On again, off again, honestly, Stiles just can’t keep track.

Argent adds, “I just need to talk to Derek, and I think- it would be best in private. It’s not- not hunter related.”

Derek doesn’t answer. He’s staring at Argent like he’s entered some kind of trance, and so Stiles says, “You can’t honestly expect him to go off with you alone.”

Argent shakes his head once, “Of course not. We can talk here, like this. I just meant-” His eyes flick toward the house, the wolves waiting on the porch. “Without an audience.”

Stiles can see from his vantage point that Derek’s hands are shaking, his head moves just slightly so that Stiles knows he’s sifting through the different scents Argent is carrying. _Damn_. Stiles wishes suddenly that Peter was here and not having yet another therapy session with his mystic healer down in Monterey. That wily brain of his is quite the weapon when it’s deployed for the pack.

“Where have you been?” Derek rasps suddenly. “What have you- who _is_ that?”

Argent sucks in a sharp breath, and the look he gives Derek is – Stiles takes a step back, blinking like an idiot. The older man is looking at Derek with something like pity. What the actual fuck? What the hell could be going on that _Chris Argent_ is feeling any kind of sympathy for _Derek Hale?_

“Derek,” Stiles says carefully, keeping his eyes on the hunter. “Do you want us to go?” He steps closer, as if waiting for an answer, but what he’s actually doing is making sure Derek remembers Stiles is there, that he heard the question at all, that he hasn’t been somehow drugged or enchanted. The alpha looks near catatonic, like he did the other day in town when this scent got him so distracted he _ran in front of an armoured fucking van_. Stiles keeps going until his chest bumps lightly into Derek’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” the wolf rasps, “they can... run the perimeter.” Out of Argent’s line of vision, Derek’s hand tangles in Stiles’s jacket and fists there. O-kay. In that instant Stiles can feel something shift between them, in the bond. Derek’s reaching out to Stiles the  same way Stiles did weeks ago, from the clinic. He’s not just wanted. He’s _needed_.

“I’m staying,” he declares, and Argent hesitates, eyes flicking between their two faces before he nods.

“Guys,” Stiles says, raising his voice though he doesn’t need to. “Can you spread out and check for intruders?” The others have heard the conversation, he knows, but it doesn’t hurt to remind them that this could be a trap. Though honestly, he can’t exactly see Mr Argent bringing Allison anywhere near a fight.

There’s a short, awkward silence as the others lope off into the woods and then they wait out an even longer, awkward silence until Derek shifts his weight, which Stiles presumes means he can no longer hear the pack, and they have privacy. He doesn’t speak.

Derek and his words.

Stiles sighs. It’s up to him, then. “What’s this about?”

Argent gives Stiles a long considering look he doesn’t like one bit, something speculative that flicks between Stiles and Derek a few too many times. Then he refocuses on Derek with a look of apology and says, “Kate.”

Derek doesn’t flinch. Stiles does.

“Her... effects arrived a few months ago. We’ve been going through them. Slowly.” He pauses as the door of the SUV opens and Allison get out, walks over to stand somewhere between her father and Stiles. She looks terrible, pale and drawn and well, yeah. Looking through your psychotic aunt’s stuff would probably do that to you. Might also explain Derek’s preoccupation, if the Kate-smell is all over town.

“And?” Stiles again. He looks sideways at Derek, realizing suddenly that the older man is hardly listening. He’s turned his face toward Allison this time, that slightly faraway look in his eyes that Stiles has learned means he’s sifting through scents or sounds beyond human ken. Whatever he’s smelling, it’s like a punch in the gut because his hand tightens on Stiles’ jacket and he takes a sudden step back, keening.

“No,” he says. It grinds out of Derek’s throat like broken glass. Allison looks at him, eyes brimming with tears.

“There was... paperwork. From an orphanage,” Argent says, as if he’s in pain.

_“No,”_ Derek says again, and his head jerks away, as if he can cast aside everything he’s hearing and smelling.

Stiles is a little slower on the uptake. An _orphanage?_

“From seven years ago,” Argent adds. He licks dry lips and says unsteadily, “For a newborn.”

“Oh, _fuck,”_ Stiles says without thinking, which is when Allison’s tears spill over and Derek throws back his head and _howls_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG. This. This is what I've been waiting to post since the very start of the series. Suddenly so very, very nervous.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

“We’re still piecing it together,” Argent says.

They’re clustered on the porch now, Derek clutching at the railing like it’s the only thing holding him up, Allison hunched beside her father on one of the wooden benches, her breath coming in little frosty puffs. Stiles is pacing, hands waving a little wildly because he wants to fucking _kill_ Kate Argent with his bare fucking _hands_ or at least watch her die this time, at Derek’s hands, over several long weeks.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” Argent adds, and lets his head drop, lacing his hands behind his head. It’s the most vulnerable Stiles has ever seen him and one part of him is amazed that Argent is allowing a _werewolf_ to see this. And yet – not amazed at all.

Because this - this has changed _everything_ , and neither Derek nor Argent can deny it. Neither of them is so hardened that they could hide their reaction to this news, or to the fact that they are now irrevocably tied to one another. Forever.

Derek snorts. Yeah. That’s getting a little old, the Argents and their _I didn’t know, didn’t want to believe it_.

“I don’t get it. Why would she carry a _werewolf’s_ child to term?” The question slips out before Stiles can stop himself, and he winces. Insensitive much, Stiles? And yet – if the woman was happy to _burn down a house full of people -_ including _children_ \- he can’t picture that kind of person hesitating to get rid of a child she’d surely have seen as a monster.

Argent sighs heavily. “My wife tells me- apparently Kate had an abortion as a teenager.” He swallows. “I was at college, I never knew. But she- it was bad. I’m not sure if she means physically, or emotionally.”

Stiles can’t hold back the snort at imagining that sociopath suffering, in any way. Don’t you have to have _feelings_ for that?

“It’s a girl,” Derek says, and that cuts across every other topic like a blade.

“Yes,” Allison says, speaking for the first time. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, watching Derek with a painful intensity.

“You have her.” _My daughter_ hangs in the air, unspoken.

“I drove to New Mexico last month,” Argent says, and now his eyes are on Derek too. “Found her in a group home and hired a lawyer.”

Stiles watches Derek’s hands flex on the railing and holds his breath, hoping the wood can take the strain.

“I brought her back last week,” Argent finishes. “I didn’t want to contact you until- until she had a chance to settle in. And then when Stiles got hurt- it seemed better to wait.”

“I caught her scent, the other day. In town.”

“What does she smell like?” And there goes Stiles again, mouth running away. _Shut the fuck up, Stiles_.

Derek’s head dips lower, eyes on his boots. “Like my mother,” he finally says, low. “Like pack.”

Stiles eyes go blurry, and he finds himself at Derek’s side, just pressing close, torn between not wanting to do this in front of Argent and not giving two fucks for what anyone thinks. “It’ll be okay,” he says, and he is a fucking liar but he has to say _something_.

The silence stretches out and finally Argent says carefully, “She- the paperwork registered with the state didn’t give permission for adoption. She’s been in the system her whole life, until now, several different foster homes according to the paperwork. We’ve told her that her mother is dead. Explained our relationship to her.”

“I’m not listed as the father,” Derek says, and it’s not a question.

“No. Father unknown. She... hasn’t asked.”

Derek swallows. From the woods there’s a howl, the pack asking for permission to return, Stiles assumes, and it seems to galvanise Argent. “What do you want to do,” he asks, hands spread.

Derek takes a trembling breath and turns, still clutching white-knuckled at the railing. Stiles turns with him.

“I don’t have any legal claim to her,” Derek says, showing his teeth.

Argent doesn’t take the bait. “Our family has wronged you in a hundred different ways,” he says, and scrubs a gloved hand over his face. “Whatever you want to do about this-” he trails off and shrugs. “I think it should be your decision. We’re happy to take her in if you don’t feel...”

“You’d hand over a child to me, to a _monster?_ ” Stiles can feel the alpha’s body shaking where they’re pressed together.

Argent doesn’t blink. “I’m a hunter. I know how a wolf feels about family. You’d die before you’d let anything happen to your child.”

 _Your child_. Stiles’ brain sticks on that phrase. Because, okay, Derek’s going to want the kid. Obviously. Even if Stiles hadn’t watched the guy pull together a pack made up of misfit teenagers, he could have guessed that a man who camped out in the burnt-out ruin of his family home would _maybe_ possibly definitely have strong feelings on this.

Argent sighs. “Also, it’s possible – well.” He shrugs helplessly. Allison reaches out and puts a hand on his arm, which seems to give him the courage to go on. “She might need guidance that only a wolf can give.”

Huh, Stiles thinks. Yeah, woah, when _do_ born wolves begin to shift? He can’t believe he’s never asked that before. Clearly it’s not from birth, if they aren’t yet sure about Derek’s daughter.

Derek’s _daughter_.

Out of the blue Derek says, “Who- what does she look like?”

There’s a long, tremulous silence. Then Allison says softly, “She looks just like her father.”

Stiles heart breaks a little at the look on Derek’s face.

Derek lets out a short, sharp breath. “I need to meet her,” he says, and looks off into the distance. “Before we talk about anything else.”

Argent nods. “I’ll... bring her out tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Derek says, and goes inside. _Flees_ , Stiles thinks ruefully, which: fair.

Stiles exchanges a long look with the Argents and then they file down the steps and over to the car in silence, looking beaten down and worn out. Stiles waits until the dust from the SUV has settled before he goes inside the house.

He finds Derek slumped on the bare frame of the bench seat Boyd is building in the nook under the stairs, and pushes himself into the other man’s space. It’s all so fragile, and Stiles is mute while he frantically thinks what to say, discarding opening after opening. He _cannot_ half ass this. He’s stunned when it’s _Derek_ who breaks the silence.

“It was only once,” he says, and Stiles frowns, confused. “The condom broke,” he adds, and _ohhh._

Derek licks his lips, eyes staring off into the distance, or into the past. “That day, when it happened,” he says, “I came home and curled up on the old wooden trunk we used to keep here, scared and exhilarated and kind of embarrassed. Worried someone would smell it on me, and ask questions. I hadn’t told anyone about the hot older chick who was into me.” He says it with no small amount of bitterness.

“And then, a fucking broken condom. I sat here and obsessed about what my parents would say, if I’d gotten someone pregnant at sixteen. How mad they’d be. How disappointed.”

Stiles just stays there, curled up against Derek’s side.

“Three weeks later they were all dead.”

Stiles closes his eyes and presses closer.

 

***

 

“All right,” he says, a long time later. “What do you need. Do you- you want to run? Smash things?”   _Kill something?_ he thinks, but doesn’t say.

Because _Stiles_ wants to kill things, actually, well, wants to kill _Kate_ , if he lets himself think about it too long, but that’s not going to help Derek. He’s a little stunned at the savagery roiling inside him right now, he very literally would do terrible things to that woman if he had the opportunity, and there’s not one atom of Stiles that would hesitate or feel bad about it after. When he looks down, his human hands are curled into claws. Stiles wants to scorch the very _memory_ of Kate Argent from the earth.

Derek doesn’t move or speak. He’s been getting more and more tense with every moment, just shutting down from too much rage and hurt and loss, and Stiles chokes for a moment because how the hell is he supposed to figure this out? Then he takes a breath, two, and shakes his head. He’s the only one here, the only one Derek is apparently going to allow near this, so it’s up to Stiles to handle this, whether he thinks he’s enough or not.

Derek needs an outlet, surely. “You’re gonna shift,” he says, thinking aloud. “You’re gonna shift, and you’re gonna run in the woods, _just_ in the woods,” he stresses. “Derek?”

Derek straightens slowly, lets his downcast head swing toward Stiles. He doesn’t speak, nods once, jerkily.

“ _Don’t_ go to the Argent’s house. Okay. Promise me?”

Derek just nods again.

“I want you to run, and to howl, and smash down trees or bite rocks or whatever it is you feel like doing, as long as you stick to the woods. Okay?”

Derek nods again, like animated stone, then rises to his feet and starts stripping.

Stiles gets up and collects the cast-offs as they drop. “I’m gonna head home for some clothes and stuff, but I’ll be back here when you’re ready to come home.”

Derek nods again. Something- whatever thought he’s having is rippling through him, raw and painful, and Stiles says hurriedly, “Go. Go let it out.”

 Derek bursts through the front door and has shifted before his feet – _paws_ – hit the frosty grass outside.

 Stiles takes the time to do some deep breathing and have his own private freakout. _His boyfriend has a six-year old daughter_. Stiles is going to be some kind of stepfather. Holy fuck.

The pack appear a few minutes later, and Stiles can tell the minute they pick up Derek’s shifted scent, the distress. They turn toward the woods, Isaac first, and Stiles calls sharply, “Leave him alone.”

Four shifted faces turn toward him. “You give us orders now?” Jackson asks, but it’s more like asshole reflex, old habit, because all of them lose that _about to run_ edge from their body language and there’s a hint of deference in the way their heads tilt toward Stiles.

“Today I do,” Stiles says grimly. “Get over here if you want to know what’s going on. I’m not shouting across the freaking yard all day.” He turns and goes back inside the house, gut churning. Part of him is wondering if he does have some kind of new status in the pack, because they’ve definitely been more respectful around him lately. He get custody of the remote more than most, no-one takes his spot on the couch, and they all just _listened_ when he spoke... _I’m totally Chakotay,_ he thinks to himself tiredly.

When he drops onto the couch and looks up the pack are there, ranged in front of him, tense and stressed. “It’s okay, guys,” he manages to say, “we’re not under attack, there’s no danger. It’s... personal stuff. Personal for Derek.”

Tension goes out of their shoulders.

Stiles lets out a breath. He does not want to be the one to talk about this. “How much do you guys know about Kate Argent?”

“Killed the Hales and set fire to this house Kate Argent?” Erica asks, startled. “Gee, we’ve heard of her, I guess, what sort of idiot fucking question is-”

She breaks off, staring at Isaac, who is whining, dropping to curl on his side next to Stiles.

“Okay,” Stiles says, and cups his cheek. “So, _you_ know then.”

He tips his head back and thinks, _screw that. Enough with all the looming_. “Sit down,” he gestures, and they all just drop down onto the coffee table, eyes fixed unblinking on Isaac. “Kate Argent seduced Derek when he was fifteen,” he says bluntly. “He didn't know who she was. It’s how she got access to the house, how she knew they’d all be at home.”

 _"Fuck,”_ Jackson says, startled. Erica and Boyd go very, very still.

“Fuck is exactly right,” Stiles mutters. “So, she’s dead, which is a shame because I would seriously like to fuck her shit up, and I know you guys would have my back on that.

“Why are you telling us this now?” Boyd asks. Boyd only ever asks the important questions.

Stiles fixes his eyes on his hands and just says it. “Because apparently... she got pregnant, and had a baby.”

Dead silence. Isaac stills under Stiles hand and seems to stop breathing.

“The Argents just found out about it, _apparently_.” The wolves twitch at that, whether because of  the way Stiles can’t help but sneer, or the thought of the Argents in general. “They went down to New Mexico and found her. Derek’s daughter. They’ve brought her back.”

“She has to be _here_ , with _us_ ,” Isaac says fiercely. The words are garbled around fangs and he’s ripping holes in the couch as he drags himself upright. “She can’t grow up with hunters, with _them_ -”

“Calm down,” Stiles says. “It’s okay. Chris Argent is, possibly, a decent human being somewhere deep down because that’s why he came today. He seems to be prepared to work this out instead of, you know, fucking off to Switzerland with the kid or pumping Derek full of wolfsbane so he doesn’t have to deal with a werewolf babydaddy.”

“A kid,” Jackson says blankly. “Derek’s a _father_. Holy shit.”

“Yes,” Stiles says. “Derek’s a father.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “He is also, right now, an unholy mess. The idea of Kate is bad enough, now this...” he shrugs. “So. He is gonna need some time and some space and at the same time I want someone from the pack with him whenever possible.” He gives a shaky laugh and sits forward, scrubs a hand over his face.

“You think the Argents might try something?” Erica says, voice as sharp as her claws.

“I think this has great potential to become a mess in ten different ways. Derek’s emotions are going to be all over the place, I don’t know how this will affect his control. I’m also thinking that Chris isn’t the only Argent, God knows what the rest of them think. Allison’s on our side, I’m pretty sure, and Chris seemed genuinely – rocked.”

They sit in silence for a moment.

“Isaac,” Stiles turns. “I want you to go to Scott’s and fill him in. I don’t know what the hell he’ll do or say, but he’s the one most likely to spot something going on with the Argents. If he-” Stiles hesitates, and looks away. He knows they can hear his heart racing. “I need you to use your own judgement on this,” he finally says slowly.

He licks his lips and turns to meet Isaac’s eyes. “You know what Scott’s like about Allison.” Isaac nods. In his peripheral vision Stiles sees the _whole pack_ nod. “If you think he’s going to have the same kind of blind spot on this like he does about everything else Allison-related, then.” He swallows. “Don’t tell him we have doubts. Just. Watch him. Listen.”

Stiles feel sick saying it. Scott has never embraced the pack, has stayed always on the fringe, and he has handled Stiles’ relationship with Derek with a kind of _as long as you’re happy then I_ _guess it’s fine_ attitude while secretly, underneath, hating every second of it. Stiles doesn’t have to be a wolf to sense that. Scott doesn’t sabotage them, but he makes no effort to close the gap with Derek, either.

Tears are burning his eyes when he turns back, to find the other three watching him steadily. There’s no particular surprise or judgement on their faces, but for some reason when he meets Jackson’s eyes, it’s the last straw. “What?” he snaps. “ _What_ , Jackson. You think I feel good about saying that? Fuck you. He’s my _best friend_.”

Jackson’s eyebrows twitch, but he’s smart enough not to answer.

It’s Boyd who says gently, “We all knew one day you might have to make a choice, Stiles. No-one here is judging you for it.”

“Well _I_ am,” Stiles says, voice rough and broken. He buries his face in his hands as he says, “I’m judging the shit out of myself.”

“Then why do it?” Isaac asks softly.

“Because this is Derek’s _kid_ ,” Stiles cries, turning on him. “Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Isaac, this is not schoolyard stuff, this is Derek’s family, and a child’s entire future.”

He shoves to his feet and gestures wildly, “He lost everything once, do you even _get_ that? His whole family just _gone_ , and now he has a chance at something he secretly believes he doesn’t deserved to have. I am not going to take the of risk screwing that up because Scott refuses to see that Allison’s family is _utterly fucked up._ ”

He stops, abruptly, because Isaac is nodding approvingly. When he glances at the others, they are all partly shifted, glowing eyes fixed on him and Erica’s smile is _feral_. “Just tell us what you need,” she says, a threat and a promise all at once. “We’ve got your back.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

“What-what’s your name,” Derek manages to ask, voice only slightly rusty.

“Ellie,” she says, and demonstrates her Hale genetics in spades by scowling at him with deep suspicion. Stiles is immediately overcome with Pavlovian affection. Clearly he’s been brainwashed by overexposure to Derek.

“Ellie,” Derek echoes back, like he’s tasting the name, reflective. There’s a moment where his eyes flick away, then back, and he says very quietly, “My grandmother’s name was Eleanor.”

“I’m just Ellie,” she maintains and Derek nods.

“I’m Derek,” he says.

Stiles swallows and drifts forward. _Okay_ , he’s thinking, _let’s just ease into this, some snacks maybe_ -

There’s a pause, then she lifts her chin and says, “You look like me.”

Fuck. Stiles freezes. Argent shifts to his back foot, looking alarmed, Allison’s hand flies to her mouth, and of all of them - _how_ is this even happening - _Derek_ is the only one not wrong-footed. “Yes,” he says simply, and keeps his eyes on hers. Ellie seems to appreciate the candour, and eyes him carefully.

_Oh_ , Stiles thinks, able to breathe again, _you gorgeous thing_. Derek is, for once, absolutely handling an emotional moment just right.

“Are you-” she starts, and then abruptly falters, courage failing.

“I just found out yesterday that you- existed,” Derek says, voice shaking slightly. “I never knew.”

And for one horrible moment Stiles is holding back an hysterical, high-pitched laugh because he’s sure that Derek is about to say _I am your father_ , a phrase which will always belong to the Skywalker family.

In the pause, Allison honks out a loud and extremely unattractive sniffle, and every eye flicks toward her. “Sorry,” she manages, voice thick, and rolls her eyes at herself.

Argent wraps an arm around her and squeezes, and oh thank God, the moment is broken and it’s Ellie who says, “So. You’re my... my Daddy?”

He can see the shaky breath Derek takes in before he says, “Yes. I am.”

The two Argents shift awkwardly, watching Ellie, who doesn’t say much of anything to that, just gives Derek a long look before turning her eyes to the other new face. She’s breathing fast, but silent and contained.

“Hey,” he says, and smiles. “I’m Stiles. I’m a friend of your Dad’s.” Behind Ellie, Derek’s body jerks at hearing that word.

Again with the carefully measuring look, though Stiles gets less of the scowl. But her eyes are Derek’s eyes, that indeterminate grey-hazel Stiles spends most of every Spanish lesson trying to properly define. There’s a long, awkward silence, and Stiles thinks, _I guess that’s my cue_. Filling the silences has always been his bailiwick.

“So, I know you’re only young, still forming your character and whatever but there’s just some stuff we gotta establish,” he says as he pulls the front door open and just leans on it, waiting for her to be ready to come inside. “What, exactly, has your exposure to superheroes been so far? Because,” he gestures with a tilting hand, “there’s a whole DC Comics versus Marvel thing that we’ve gotta establish before we can go any further.”

She eyes Stiles with confusion, but takes a step forward and so he keeps going, fills up the spaces while Derek and the Argents hover awkwardly, hands in their coat pockets. “Now - you’re young, so your opinions can still be moulded, thank God. We just gotta establish the big guns, here. Batman. Superman. X-Men. Your thoughts?”

She darts a glance at Derek, the _is he for real_ look Stiles has become used to throughout his life, but she walks inside readily enough, glancing around with real curiosity. Stopping beside the couch, she turns and focuses on Stiles, ignoring the others who are lining the room like wallflowers at the palace ball. “Batman’s lame,” she says, and lifts her chin. “I like Superman.”

_Yeah_. Abandoned by his parents, never quite fitting in, Stiles thinks with an ache in his chest which he covers by clutching at it, hard.

“Okay that- that hurts, I’m not gonna lie. Batman is not _lame_ ,” he admonishes and heads into the kitchen, trusting a curious child will follow. “He’s not _powered_ , but that just makes him different, _and in no way lame_.” He waggles a raised finger, lecture style, and Ellie’s lips almost twitch before she catches herself. “Batman is all about the brains, and the gadgets.” _And the deep, deep psychosis_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say.

In the kitchen he keeps his hands busy, setting up for mugs of hot chocolate and coffee as he talks, and Derek falls in at his side, face taut and his eyes skittering to Ellie’s face every few seconds. Allison, thank the good Lord, has enough sense to slide onto one of the high stools at the breakfast bar and after a moment, Ellie follows. She folds her hands together on the bench, way too contained for a child of that age. Chris Argent slides his hands into his pockets and wanders over to the windows, watching everyone’s reflections in the glass, glancing uneasily around the house his sister burned to the ground.

“I’ve seen _X-Men_ ,” Ellie offers, her first voluntary contribution to the conversation, and Stiles nods, gives himself a second to breathe in relief.

“This is good, this is important. I’m gonna assume you’re all about Wolverine,” he pours milk into a pan, hesitates and then adds more. Behind him Derek turns on the burner and steps to the pantry, perfectly in synch with Stiles as usual.

“I’m not even gonna ask. I mean. How can you _not_ love a bad-tempered, surly badass like that?” and he’s not even trying to hide the grin by the time he finishes. From the corner of his eye he sees Allison bite her lip on a smile and Derek glare in his direction as he slides the block of chocolate toward Stiles, who sits the pan over the flames.

“Plus he can be shot in the head and survive,” Ellie adds.

“Way cool,” Stiles agrees.

“And I like Hot Guy from the _Avengers_ ,” she continues, “with the arrows”, and Derek bobbles a mug and only saves it from smashing through the application of freaky werewolf reflexes.

Ellie doesn’t seem to notice, though she could hardly miss the glare Stiles gets when he nods sagely and says, “Uh, you maybe mean Hawkeye?” He’s fairly certain from the way she said it that Ellie has no idea what she’s implying. He’s heard his young cousins do the same thing, parroting stuff they’ve heard from the older kids at school. But it’s totally worth it to see the horrified look Derek and Argent are currently sharing.

“No, I’m pretty sure he’s called Hot Guy,” she says, and Stiles shrugs.

“If he’s not, he probably should be.” Because, well- Jeremy Renner... _hnnnh._

That’s when Allison breaks, whooping and snorting into her hand and it startles Ellie into a giggle that’s about the most beautiful fucking sound Stiles has ever heard. He glances sideways and watches Derek stare helplessly at his daughter, knuckles white on the coffee mug.

 

***

 

Ellie drives off with the Argents an hour or so later and leaves Derek a pacing, snarling mess. And okay, Stiles maybe should’ve been a little more prepared for this, no doubt it hurts to watch her drive away again, with the Argents, no less, but he’s guessing there’s also some kind of wolfy empty-den instinct happening here.

So, Stiles being Stiles, he dives right in.

“I was thinking maybe we should bring my Dad up to date on this.”

Derek wheels on him. “What?”

“My Dad. Y’know, the Sheriff?”

“I know who your fucking father is, Stiles,” Derek snarls. “Why the _hell_ would I want to-”

“Becaues it’s all very well for Chris Argent to say he’s happy for you to take her, and all, but there’s gonna be like, paperwork for school and medical stuff and for all of that you’re gonna need some kind of paper trail proving she’s yours. Custody agreements or DNA tests or adoption or assertion of parental rights or something. And Dad will know at least some of what that entails, plus-”

Stiles pauses for breath but Derek is apparently helpless in the face of his flood of words so he shrugs and keeps going. “He’s totally on the in with CPS, they work together all the time which is good for us, because I think that maybe a social worker will have to get involved in this... maybe?”

Derek just stares at him. Then he kind of just collapses against the wall. “Yeah,” he finally says, voice rough. “Okay. Call him, I guess.”

Stiles takes in a steadying breath. _That went better than I thought_. He winces, though, at the thought of telling his father that his older boyfriend is also a single parent. There’s going to be words about _that_ later on at Casa Stilinski. So many words. Possibly _all_ of the words.

“I know this is shitty,” he murmurs, and crosses the room to press himself against Derek. “I know you must just want to snatch her up tight in your arms and growl at everything that comes near you.” Derek twitches a little, the closest he’s going to get to an answer. “We’re going to get there, babe, you’re gonna have your little wolf cub here with you, and it’s all going to work out, okay? We just have to hold on, and do this by the book, so no-one can ever take her away again.”

“She’s a girl, not a cub,” Derek grumbles. He turns his head into that spot behind Stiles’ ear and breathes in deep, hands clasping his hips firmly.

“Babe, even if she’s totally human, any kid of yours is gonna be a growly bundle of fun,” Stiles says, and kisses him.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thankfully he’s already set the glasses safely on the bench by the time Ellie starts speaking, because her opener is a doozy.
> 
> “So... you’re my father’s... boyfriend.”
> 
> He freezes. “Woah, hey, okay, labels, and also, how are you, Ellie, nice to see you again. How was your day?”
> 
> She gives him a flat look that is so, so reminiscent of her father and his insides _melt_. Stiles is completely fucked.

 

They pull into the Stilinski driveway and Stiles takes his time climbing out of the car. He’s been thinking about this the whole drive. “When we get back,” he hesitates, then watches as Derek reaches the door, hands flexing into claws for a second before he regains control, “I really think you should talk to Ezra.”

Derek freezes, glances back at Stiles. “He. He doesn’t even know about Kate.”

Stiles blinks slowly. “Okay.” He swallows. Derek is kind of maxed out at the moment for emotional stuff. “Maybe I can- do you want me to tell him just- the background? The not-Ellie stuff? I can talk to him tonight, give him some time to process and you can call back tomorrow?”

Derek nods. Then says, “And Peter. We should. He should know.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and opens the door. _Another Hale walking around_ , he thinks, and his chest is expanding with something light and warm. Derek’s daughter. Ellie Hale. Family. Pack. Surviving.

 

***

 

The next few weeks are a bizarre mess of schoolwork and legal technicalities. After the first few days Derek insists Stiles focus on school, while Derek and the Argents and the Sheriff sort out the legal mess. Derek can, apparently, voluntarily declare himself Ellie’s father, and Chris Argent confirms the relationship. Apparently, as long as no-one contests Derek’s claim, he won’t even have to submit to a DNA test. Deaton is of the opinion that he would be able to take a test if needed, but on this one thing, at least, neither the hunters nor the wolves want to risk exposure.

Yay for the fucking code.

There is, indeed, a social worker.

Her name is Fran, she has an annoying near-monotone voice and looks at Derek like his mainpain is on a par with bad body odour. But since there’s no actual law against grumpy fathers, and his interactions with Ellie are gentle and tentative to an incredible degree, she eventually signs off on a 50/50 shared custody agreement for a three-month period, with the intention of moving toward full custody for Derek and negotiated visitation by the Argents.

Upshot is, the pack spends the first weeks of Ellie’s arrival in a surreal kind of family-dinner montage, in between Derek having freakouts about finishing his thesis and building the model and the trip he’ll have to take back to New York to defend it. Stiles and Peter fight for Ellie’s time at the Hale house to continue uninterrupted in Derek’s absence. After a week of deliberating, Fran agrees, talking about routines and extended family networks. All Stiles cares about is making sure Ellie isn’t sucked into the Argent bizzaro universe.

Ellie will, for now, keep doing the home-school program the Argents started when they brought her back to California, and will enrol in the local elementary school later in the year, when the custody arrangements are finalized. Stiles eyes narrow when he hears _that_ little detail.

“What an _interesting_ choice,” Peter says. “I never knew Victoria and Chris were so interested in education. Was _Allison_ home-schooled?”

“Well I guess it’s harder to hide a child’s existence if she’s been enrolled at the local school,” Stiles snarks. “If you want to disappear, however, home-schooling must be a damn handy way to stay off the grid.” Their eyes meet in perfect agreement.

Derek’s hand tightens on Stiles’, but he stays silent, even though Stiles knows he spends his nights patrolling the a nine-block radius around the Argent house as discreetly as possible, panicked that Ellie will disappear or that all of this is a dream. Stiles has had to negotiate for Peter to occasionally take the night-patrol, so that Derek can get some sleep and finish his thesis and co-incidentally, stop looking like a man on the edge to Fran’s watchful eyes.

The Sheriff huffs out an aggravated breath. “Whatever the reason, they’ve done the right thing in the end,” he says. “Let’s not borrow trouble, okay?”

Stiles shrugs. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Victoria hasn’t been present for any meeting with Derek. He still remembers her, the hard glare she’d sent Scott’s way, and how very close it had all come to disaster, with Gerard. If he hadn't ended up in a palliative care ward instead of hatching his plots and making Allison crazy. It would have been so easy for someone to end up dead that night.

 

 

 

 

Stiles tucks the phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he ushers Ellie out of the Jeep and into the kitchen.

“Yep, we’re here, all present and accounted for,” he says, rolling his eyes a little as Derek works his way through his list of questions. Stiles calls it the I’m-not-stalking-I’m-checking-on-my-kid daily call, and today it has lasted the entire trip from the Argents. He is carefully not mentioning the look of _crazy_ on Allison’s mother’s face when Stiles had glanced in the Jeep’s rear view mirror.

He dumps both their bags on the floor and drags the milk out of the fridge while Ellie retrieves the cookie jar, then climbs onto the high stool Stiles’ Dad has set up at the kitchen bench for his not-grandaughter. The plan tonight is dinner with the Stilinskis, before driving out to the Hale house.

Stiles’ dad is Ellie’s _slave_. She calls him _Pops_ , for Chrissake.

“Listen, babe, gotta go. Good luck with the thing tomorrow, and say hi to Ezra from me,” he says, and manages to hang up without making even one kissing noise, though he is sorely tempted.

Thankfully he’s already set the glasses safely on the bench by the time Ellie starts speaking, because her opener is a doozy.

“So... you’re my father’s... boyfriend.”

He freezes. “Woah, hey, okay, labels, and also, how are you, Ellie, nice to see you again. How was your day?”

She gives him a flat look that is so, so reminiscent of her father and his insides _melt_. Stiles is completely fucked.

“Hi, Stiles,” she says calmly. Clearly at least one set of foster parents spent some time hammering manners into her, because Derek would have just glowered and ignored the social cues. The Hale relentlessness, however, has in no way been curbed. “So. You’re my father’s boyfriend.”

“Uh. I guess?” Stiles sighs. That probably shouldn’t have been a question. He scrubs his hand over the bristle of his hair and says firmly, “Yeah. Okay. I am. I’m Derek’s boyfriend.” Huh, he normally feels all kind of proud when he gets to say that. Instead, this time he pours two tall glasses of milk and wishes for a strong belt of bourbon in his own.

She just nods, once, and selects a choc-chip cookie.

“Is, uh, that okay with you?” He asks, then winces. Crap, he has no idea what he’s doing here. Probably, as a rule, kids shouldn’t control their parents’ relationships. But then again, Ellie’s had it pretty rough so far, and she’d probably like to feel as though she has a say in what goes on in this new life with Derek. And then there’s, y’know. Kids at school. There could be teasing. Bullying. Though - sweet baby Jesus are those kids in for a shock if they try _anything_ with Ellie Hale.

Derek would probably mess them up, too, once Stiles was finished with them.

“You’re kinda young,” she says.

 _Okay_. “And the hits just keep coming,” Stiles murmurs, rounding the bench. “Have you been talking to my Dad?”

She gives him the _crazy_ look. “Why would I be talking to Pops about that?”

“Never mind. Uh. I’m a bit younger than Derek, yeah. But that’s not really, um, all that uncommon, my Dad was four years older than my Mom.”

“And Kate was a lot older than my Dad.”

Stiles sits down swiftly. It might have looked like a collapse, it totally wasn’t. “Um. Yeah. So, _anyway_ -”

“No-one wants to talk about Kate.”

Shit.

Shit shit _shit_ , _why_ is this happening on _Stiles’_ watch?

He thinks wildly that offering to buy a pony might get him out of this, and then takes a deep breath. This is- okay, let’s be realistic, here. Derek is doing great in many ways but he is in no kind of shape to talk about Kate. Chris and Allison are half-destroyed by what she left behind and he’s sure as hell not trusting Victoria Argent with anything deeper than the family’s brownie recipe. Maybe Stiles is the only one who can handle this without completely losing his shit.

“What, uh, what do you want to talk about?” He takes a deep drink of milk. Man, he is _sweating_.

Ellie eyes him suspiciously, clearly not sure what to do when she’s not confronted with polite evasions. “What was she like?” she finally asks.

“Well, uh, I never actually met her in person. But um. My friend Scott? He had dinner with the family a, uh, few months before, before she died.” Stiles swallows and thinks back over what Scott had told him. There’d been a fair amount for him to unload, what with the hunter-related panic and the _oh my God Allison totally had a condom_ stuff, but Stiles thinks it over carefully before he starts. He really doesn’t want to screw this up.

“He said she was pretty. Really pretty. I think, um.” He takes a deep breath and says as evenly as he can, “Derek said your smile is just like hers, so clearly she had a _beautiful_ smile. And, she had a husky voice, y’know, kinda smoky?”

Ellie just nods and waits. Her eyes are huge and unblinking.

“Scott said she was pretty um, strong. Not with muscles, but, like, personality wise. Assertive.” _Scary as shit_ had been the actual words. “And,” Stiles swallows, forces himself to say, “she was smart.” Smart enough to plot the murder of an entire pack of supernatural creatures and get away with it. Yeah, smart like _Hannibal fucking Lecter_.

“Nobody liked her, though.” It’s not a question. Ellie has seen the grief and the tension and above all, the silence, and is putting her own interpretation on things. Stiles can’t exactly blame her.

He takes a slow breath. Licks his lips and wonders what the hell right he has to talk to her about any of this. “Look, it’s- this situation is pretty complicated. For your Dad, especially it’s-” Stiles swallows. “He’s angry at your mother, I’m not gonna lie. There’s... other reasons, very good reasons he’s mad at her, that go way back before you were even born. And now, on top of that, he’s _super-mad_ that she hid you from him and he missed out knowing you for all those years.” He hesitates, then adds more slowly, “And I think he’s also kinda mad at himself for not just, figuring it out somehow and finding you, even though that’s completely irrational. It’s kind of his superpower. He blames himself a lot, even for stuff he didn’t cause.”

Ellie frowns, thinking that over.

“So.” He suddenly remembers where he was going with this, “Derek, uh, I think it’s gonna take some time before he can really talk about this properly. And the Argents, well. That’s kind of complicated too. Because. Uh. Finding out all these secrets Kate was keeping- it hurt them, y’know? But I think, if you wanted to ask them stuff, they’d try really hard to answer. And they probably knew Kate best, like, your Uncle Chris would have stories about her as a kid, which I always like hearing about my Mom.”

Part of Stiles is vibrating in fury at the thought of any cute kid-Kate stories taking up residence in Ellie’s head and in her heart – _she doesn’t deserve that place_ – but the fact none of them can avoid is, she’s the only mother this little girl is ever going to have.

Her eyes are fixed on the kitchen counter now, and for a moment he thinks he’s made it out alive. Then she says, low, “Why didn’t she want me?”

Ah, _fuck_.

Stiles just stares at her, hollowed out. He can’t begin to hold back the tears that prompts, in fact he doesn’t even try. “Ellie,” he chokes out, “Kate messed up. Big time. Huge. I can’t imagine anyone leaving a baby like that unless they absolutely had to, _especially_ someone as amazing as you.”

She freezes.

“I promise you, though, that whatever the reason, it wasn’t anything to do with _you_ , okay?” He leans down, trying to catch her eye, makes do with taking her hand instead. “You were a _baby_ , there’s _nothing_ you could have done, nothingabout _you_ that could have caused this, it was Kate’s problem and she made a fucking horrible decision because of her own issues, okay, _nothing_ to do with you.” He’s panting by the time he finishes.

She’s staring at him, wide-eyed. “You said the bad word.”

“Yeah,” he manages, and scrubs a hand over his face, “I did. Sorry. Let’s uh, try not to mention that to your Dad, okay? Or uh, anyone?”

“You’re setting a _terrible_ example,” she says reprovingly, and Stiles laughs wildly. Christ, this _kid._

She gets three extra cookies in while he’s recovering his equilibrium and he shakes his head at her sneakiness.

 _She gets that from me_ , Stiles thinks as he rinses out the dishes, and grins proudly to himself.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

Stiles lays his hands flat on the kitchen table and takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to be the one to say this, but-

“She has to be told. About Kate. About-” he falters for a moment, looks once at Derek, “the fire.”

Derek just stiffens. Argent says flatly, “No.”

Stiles lets them all take a moment, drinks in the sound of Ellie in the next room, making Boyd sit through his ninety-eighth viewing of _The Princess and the Frog_. ... _yeah I’ve climbed the mountain I’ve crossed the river and I’m almost there..._

“She’s going to start school soon, right?”

Allison nods slowly, meeting his eyes. She understands what he’s trying to say. Maybe it’s because they’re both still at school, they know how the dynamics of the place works, while Derek and Chris have forgotten.

“Beacon Hills is a small town,” she says, almost apologetic, and looks at her father, who winces.

Stiles looks over at Derek, stony faced. “At the very least they’re all going to know who Derek is, where Ellie’s living, the fire is going to come up. And eventually – maybe not the first day, or the second, but eventually she’ll mention her Uncle Chris or her cousin Allison and someone will tell her about Kate. It was all over the papers,” he adds as Argent starts to speak. “There’s no way anyone’s forgotten.”

“It’s _elementary_ school,” Argent says hollowly. “Surely-”

“Mr Argent,” Stiles says, “I was a deputy’s kid at elementary school. And I can promise you plenty of kids had stuff to say to me about their family’s legal problems. _My dad lost his job because he lost his license for DUI, your Dad came and took my uncle away, why’d your father have to lock up my aunty Liz_ , it happened – not a lot, but it happened. Believe me, even kids that young know what’s going on, and they don’t hesitate to bring it up.” He looks at Derek, who is pale, jaw set. “You have to give her the protection of knowing the truth, of hearing it from you.”

 

***

 

Ellie takes it very, very quietly.

“So this is why,” she asks, head down. “This is why no-one ever wanted to talk about her.” They’re in the garden, the one Boyd and Derek has been working hard to bring back to life. Behind Ellie’s shoulder the back half of the house still shows obvious signs of rebuilding, but Derek had set his mouth in a line and said, _no good pretending_ when Argent had suggested maybe having the conversation at their house, or Stiles’.

“Yes,” Derek says, and this is, Stiles can see it’s fucking _killing_ him to tell her this, to explode the few small fantasies she’s had about her mother.

“ _This_ house? This is the one, this is why some of the rooms are-”

“Yes.”

She is breathing a little faster now, “But you came back here? To live in the same house?” She turns his face away and brings her hands up. “Didn’t it hurt?”

“Yeah,” Derek says roughly, “it hurt. A lot.” Stiles winces, wondering if Ellie will ever figure out that was half the reason Derek had slept in the shell of his former family home.

“And there were... little kids here?”

Derek nods, mouth tight. Ellie takes a hitching breath and he sets a gentle hand on her head, it’s enough for her to climb into his lap and he wraps strong arms around her, lets her hide. Derek is breathing in the scent of her hair, not even trying to hide this wolfy sign of his own distress as they rock gently together.

“Why?” she finally asks against Derek’s throat. “Why would she do that?”

Stiles winces and looks at Chris Argent, who is pale and tense. “Our two families,” he said slowly, “there’s been bad blood between them, for generations.” He exchanges a glance with Derek. She was too young to hear the wolf stuff, they’d agreed on that. So the cleaned-up version went something like, “I think she... convinced herself they were dangerous.”

“But you two were... going out, right?” she says into Derek’s chest. “Didn’t she... like you?”

Derek’s lips tighten. He sighs, soft and sad. “I thought she did,” is all he says.

“Did- did you make her mad, or something?” she asks, very small, and Derek flinches. _My fault_ is written all over his face.

“Ellie,” Stiles says, watching Derek’s face, “even if he had, that’s not a reason to do what she did.”

And then she cries, while the three of them look on helplessly.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Of all of the good things in my life, Ellie,” Derek tells her, low and certain, “you are far and away the very, very best.”

 

 

The pack is counting down the days to Derek getting full custody. It’s ridiculous, really, how much they’ve all connected to her. She’s like a tiny sun around which all their planets revolve.

The girls go crazy with a tiny little angel to dress up, the shopping trips are epic and frequent. Stiles has got to admit, he had no idea kids clothes could be that funky. Peter and Derek turn up one Saturday with a shiny purple bicycle and though it visibly takes almost all of their self control, they ease back and its Chris Argent - ably assisted by _Pops_ \- who teaches her how to ride. Then Scott and Isaac take turns running beside Ellie as she bikes around Beacon Hills. Boyd is the master of the Pixar universe. But it’s Jackson, shockingly, who strikes gold with a vintage wooden dollhouse his mother had been hanging onto since her childhood.

Ellie’s little body _shakes_ when she first glimpses it, already set up on the huge landing at the top of the stairs, dolls in lawn chairs casually arrayed on the  left, little wooden car parked on the right. Stiles has to turn his face away before he freaking _bawls_ at the way she just keeps gulping in air, as if she wants to squeal but can’t quite find a register high enough to express her joy. Jackson still manages to look bored instead of interested when everyone gathers around it, but he accepts Ellie’s vibrating hug of gratitude in sheepish silence.

Stiles pays him back by making his favourite - pad thai – for dinner on Friday night, and baking a hummingbird cake that weekend. They don’t talk about it, but Jackson knows. He expresses his thanks by sneering at Stiles’ very existence, and the world begins to turn on its axis once more.

Clearly, Ellie has a lock on pack mascot, whether she knows it or not. Case in point, it’s Wednesday afternoon and Ellie is conducting a science lesson at the Hale kitchen table while Stiles finishes his chemistry homework. Derek is chopping vegetables for stir-fry under Stiles’ watchful eye. In the living room, Jackson is sulking about having to read _Catch 22_ while Boyd and Erica play footsie and pretend to read up on American history.

“You know why hot water cleans our bodies?”

“Why?” Stiles asks, lips twitching already. He loves Ellie’s Theories of Life.

“Because germs, okay, if germs were little people – no wait. Just say that we are all germs,” she gestures, so animated it almost hurts to watch and Stiles grins a little, props his hand on his chin.

“Okay, so, Derek’s a germ,” he says. He catches the narrow-eyed look from his boo and adds swiftly, “Jackson is a germ. Boyd and Erica and Isaac are also all germs.”

“We’re _all_ germs,” Ellie repeats, not noticing a thing.

Stiles nods, “Gotcha.”

“So, if we were all germs, then hot water would be like lava is to us. It washes us away and gets rid of us, takes us away from our... home planet,” she finishes in triumph.

Derek is laughing quietly at the sink.

Stiles hmms thoughtfully. “So, let me get this straight. Jackson could be the germ of HairPlanet, and Isaac could be the germ of MouthPlanet, and Boyd could be the germ of ArmpitPlanet, and Erica could be the germ of FootPlanet-”

“-and Stiles would be the biggest germ of-” Jackson calls from the living room.

“-hey, educating my kid here,” Stiles says over the top of him, “continue, sweetie, please. I am just learning _so much_.”

He leans in and listens to Ellie expand on her idea, and it takes a good two minutes before he notices the way Derek is staring at him, hands resting limply in the water.

He shoots a questioning look at Derek, thinking back over what just happened. _Educating my kid_. Ohhhh. He smiles like an idiot, and they spend an embarrassing amount of time staring at one another before Ellie makes an impatient noise and elbows Stiles in the ribs.

 

***

 

On the FranWatch front, Stiles had actually expected Derek’s many run-ins with the police to be something of an issue, but apparently dating the son of the Sheriff with the Sheriff’s full approval goes a long way toward settling any anxieties on that front. Plus, Stiles supposes, Derek isn’t _actually_ cooking meth or making his living from armed robbery, and he’d never actually been _charged_ with anything at all, in the end.

He owns his family home, has money in the bank and is a near-qualified architect. He’s probably pretty conventional compared to a lot of the parents CFS see. Apart from the werewolf stuff, of course.

And the have-you-met-my-boyfriend thing turns out to be mostly a non-issue for Fran and her perpetual checklist of parental qualities. This might, again be because of the Sheriff’s-son-connection and nobody wanting to piss off the head of Beacon Hills’ police department. This might also be because Fran is a decent person who doesn’t think The Gays are Evil.

Stiles can’t really tell because her voice drives him into a near-coma every time he sees her. She always looks vaguely surprised when someone refers to Stiles as twitchy or hyperactive. It’s like they’ve never even met.

The delegation of wolves from Idaho that present themselves in September for a possible alliance and the coven of witches they skirmish with in early October are a cake-walk compared to everything else, including college applications and SATs, which Stiles works on diligently, and then tries hard not to think about.

 

***

 

Thanksgiving is approaching. Stiles had such high hopes, this year, and now it’s the most complicated frickin’ mess you could possibly imagine. Hales, Stilinskis, McCalls and Argents, oh for the love of God. Derek can’t bring himself to go to the Argent house, but doesn’t want to cut Ellie off from her extended family. He is trying so hard not to be That Guy that sometimes Stiles just has to yank him into the nearest room and kiss him senseless.

Scott wants to be with Allison and Stiles, but is increasingly terrified of Victoria Argent. Finally, Stiles hammers things out with his Dad and extends invitations to all and sundry to share an awkward if well-intentioned feast at the Stilinski house.

The Hales and the McCalls are going to be there, no brainer. The Argents - well, that’s more complicated. Allison is desperate to come, Chris is apparently happy to compromise; Victoria Argent is utterly refusing any variation other than Ellie sitting at _their_ table in _their_ house. Derek is never mentioned by Victoria.

In the end, Derek agrees to let Ellie have a sleepover at the Argent house the night before, and share a Thanksgiving breakfast with the Argents. Chris and Allison will bring her over with them to Stiles’ place mid-morning. Victoria will not be attending.

It’s probably the best Stiles could have hoped for, except that when Ellie arrives she is pale and subdued.

“What’s up, Ellevator?” Stiles asks, busy in the kitchen but watching her like a hawk. Derek, he knows, is listening from the living room, and _hoo_ _boy_ is she going to hate it when she learns about the wolf stuff and realizes how many of her private conversations her father has listened to. Stiles is going to suggest maybe putting it off until she’s about twenty nine.

“Nothing,” she says, and pokes listlessly at the packet of marshmallows on the counter.

Stiles hesitates, then decides not to push. Maybe Thanksgiving brings up the memory of past years? She’s never talked much about the homes she lived in. It seems like they were decent enough places, with decent enough people, which Stiles can never be sufficiently thankful for. But surely there’s some baggage there, or at least, some mixed up feelings. He will let her be, and mount a sneak attack with turkey and mashed potato.

 

 

 

Stiles rubs his belly, as if that will help distribute the overabundance of turkey and Melissa McCall’s handmade bread rolls. It really doesn’t. Instead he heaves himself to his feet like a heavily pregnant woman and stacks a heap of dirty plates. Ellie follows him around the table, gathering up the gravy-stained knives and forks and follows him into the kitchen, Derek watching the whole way with two little lines between his eyebrows.

When they’re alone, in the kitchen, Ellie says, “Your Mom died.”

Stiles freezes. He’s slowly getting used to this, the way Ellie can just start a conversation on a sensitive topic with no lead-in, but he’s still blindsided, every time, for just a few seconds. “Uh,” he says, and swallows. “Yeah.”

She carefully slides her burden of dirty flatware into the sink and says over the clattering, “So... then it was just you and your Daddy?”

“Yeah,” he replies, and carefully sets down the stack of dirty dishes. “That’s right. Like you and your Daddy,” he adds, hoping he’s guessed right.

She goes still, staring down at the counter and drawing idly with her thumb. “Didn’t you have any other family?”

Stiles frowns, scraping leftovers into the trash. Scott and Allison traipse in and out with another stack of serving dishes while Stiles answers slowly. “Well. I mean, my Mom had a sister, my Aunty June, who lives in Seattle. And my Nonna, my grandmother, she uh, died a few years ago but she was around when – well, for most of my childhood. Is that what you mean?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a long silence. Finally, he prompts, “Is there- did you want to ask me something?”

“Did you- you stayed with your Dad all the time?”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles answers, confused. “Of course. Where else would I be?” And in the next second he has the answer, the _why_ that Ellie’s quiet arrival had raised this morning.

Oh. No. _Fucking._ Way.

He swallows, hard, and moves a little too quickly down the counter until he can crouch in front of Ellie. “Yeah,” he says thickly, “I stayed with my Dad. We needed each other, Ellie. Because he was all I had left. And no matter that I had Nonna and Aunty June and even my best friend Scott and his Mom, _nobody_ made me feel as safe as my Dad, nobody _has_ ever or _will_ ever love me like he does.”

Derek just _appears_ at Stiles’ side out of nowhere, obviously detecting the sudden racing of his heartbeat, and Stiles meets his glance and shakes his head, warning.

He turns back to Ellie and swallows hard before he asks, “Is there anything you’re worried about? Anything you want to ask?”

She looks from him to Derek, eyes wide, and gives a little headshake. Stiles goes on instinct and gathers her up, stands up with an Ellie octopus wrapped around him and turns to Derek, who wraps them both in his arms and they stand together, just breathing.

“We’re so lucky to have you, Ellie-bean,” Stiles murmurs, and fuck, how can he love her so much already? It’s like Derek came along and broke him open so that all she had to do was frown up at Stiles and he was hers.

She clings tighter and whatever Derek scents on her, it has him making a rough sound in his throat. “This is the first time in a very long time,” he says, low and rough, “that I’ve been truly thankful.”

She turns her head, just a little, enough so that he can kiss her hair, her forehead. “Thankful for me?” she whispers.

Derek’s fingers bite into Stiles’ waist. “Of all of the good things in my life, Ellie,” Derek tells her, low and certain, “you are far and away the very, very best.”

She burrows in tighter, murmurs something Stiles can’t decipher, and Derek flinches worse than the time with the hand grenade.

 _“Never,”_ he growls, voice shaking to pieces. “You are _never_ in the way, you could never be, you’re _mine_ , you’re my daughter, _my own_ , Ellie-” and okay, Stiles is openly crying now and he turns Ellie so she can press into Derek’s chest instead, lets them wrap their arms around each other as he tries to slide away, choking. Derek lifts his head, face wet, and keeps him pinned with a look.

 _Love you too, babe,_ Stiles thinks, and then he sees Derek’s eyes flick over his shoulder, his expression closing off again.

Stiles cups Derek’s face in his hand and turns his head, knowing what he’ll see. There in the doorway is Peter, pale and angry, and beyond him is Dad, the pack, and the Argents.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

Scott and Isaac take one look at Stiles’ face and draw Ellie down on the couch between them, Mrs McCall watching carefully from the armchair. Ellie gets control of the remote, because she has Derek’s flat stare down to an art form and they are both totally whipped, and in three seconds flat Stiles has every other person in the house clustered in a loose circle in the backyard.

“No way,” Stiles says, and he’s breathing so hard in his rage he has to actually gulp before he can finish, “No fucking way is she going back to that house _ever_ _again_.”

“Stiles-” his Dad begins, startled.

Allison is staring at him, wide-eyed. Chris looks... resigned. Sorrowful. On Stiles’s left, Peter is glaring with silent judgement at the Argents.

Derek is hunched by the back door, white-faced and silent. He won’t give in to his temper, not with Ellie around. That’s all Stiles’ department, for now.

He raises a hand and points a finger at Chris. “You should be _ashamed_. Hasn’t she been through _enough?_ ”

“I didn’t know,” Chris begins, but a low growl comes from Derek’s throat and his fingernails are lengthening in tiny increments.

 _“What has happened to my daughter,_ ” he grits out. Peter shifts his weight just enough to hint at a threat.

“Dad?” Allison looks uneasy, as well she should.

“Tell me why Ellie would be asking me whether a kid is better off not living with her Dad, or if she’s _in the way_ ,” Stiles spits the words like they’re poison. “Tell me where the _fuck_ a six year old gets ideas like that-”

“No,” Allison says abruptly. “You think Mom- Stiles, _no_ , she wouldn’t do that.”

Stiles just stares at Chris Argent.

“It says a lot that you jump to that conclusion, Allison,” Peter’s voice is silky smooth.

“I told her not to speak to Ellie about it,” Argent says firmly, his eyes fixed on Derek. “We agreed.”

“But you left her with the opportunity,” Derek says, low and angry. “Knowing how she feels about me, about what I am, you left her alone with my daughter?”

“I answered the phone,” Argent says helplessly, spreads his hands. “I was only gone a few minutes.”

“Long enough,” Stiles shoots back, crossing his arms.

The Sherriff is looking pretty goddam unhappy, glancing from one group to the other. “This true, Chris?”

“Victoria has... opinions,” Argent says carefully.

“Victoria is a bigot and a manipulative _bitch_ ,” Stiles says, way beyond giving a shit. “She is also, apparently, the same kind of sociopath Kate was, if she can’t even put Ellie’s feelings ahead of her own bullshit _opinions_.”

Argent’s head snaps back and Allison is glaring at him. “Don’t you talk about my mother like-”

“Your fucking mother is trying to cut a six year old off from her father because of her own agenda,” Stiles yells. “But I can damn well _promise_ you I won’t ever talk about her again because she is _never_ going to have any contact with our kid. Ever again.”

“O _kay_ ,” his Dad says, stepping forward, hands up until he’s standing between Stiles and the Argents. “Let’s all just calm down a notch or two.”

“I understand that you’re angry,” Argent begins carefully, “I’m not too thrilled about this, either-”

“You don’t even know if she _did_ anything, said _anything_ ,” Allison bursts out.

“Fine,” Stiles takes a breath and tries to engage his brain. Time to switch tactics. “Call her.”

“What?”

“Call her. Right now.” He spreads his hands, concilliatory, “Let’s talk this shit out. If this is some kind of misunderstanding, I’m sure she’ll explain, or apologize, or whatever. Let’s hear it.” _And her lying fucking heartbeat_ , he thinks. On Argent’s left, Peter gives him an approving nod, eyes gleaming with temper.

That shuts them both up. Allison shoves her hands into her jacket pockets and Argent looks down at his feet.

 _“Yeah,”_ Stiles says, voice hard. “That’s what I thought.”

“Don’t forget,” Peter says, and Argent startles like he’d forgotten the wolf was there, “if there was going to be some kind of showdown of ugly truths, the Argent family would hardly come off looking good.”

Stiles father shifts his feet, frowning at the not-so-subtle threat.

Peter shrugs, “Difference is, of course, no-one in the pack would _dream_ of using Ellie’s affections as a weapon, whereas your wife went straight for the jugular, first chance she got.” His voice turns silky and all the more threatening, “Makes it difficult to tell who’s the true monster, really.”

 “I think we’ve done enough talking,” Derek says, his voice low and even but with a hint of a growl within. He steps up to Stiles’ side. “Victoria is no longer to spend any time with Ellie, supervised or not. The two of you are welcome at our house any time you wish to see her. She will not go to your home again unless one of the pack is there the entire time, and Victoria is _not_.”

“You think you can just dictate-”

“I’m aware Ellie is your family, too,” Derek says over the top of Argent, and he’s a shitload calmer than Stiles right now, he’ll be so damn proud of his boyfriend when he’s able to think coherently again. “I have no wish to try and come between either of you and my daughter. But you once told me, Chris, that you knew how wolves felt about family. I’m assuming that also means you know _exactly_ what I’ll do if I ever get even a hint that the Argents are upsetting my daughter and filling her head with garbage when she already has more than enough to deal with. Right now I can’t even trust that Victoria wouldn’t tell her about werewolves if she thought it would win her something, no matter what the rest of us have agreed.”

“I think,” Stiles’ dad breaks in, “we can all agree Ellie’s been through enough, especially for a kid her age. And none of us want her to feel like she’s causing trouble, or creating tension,” he says, with a hard look at Stiles.

He shoots back a _what- who, me?_ look that does him no good at all, apparently.

“So,” Dad goes on. “We’re gonna shelve this discussion for now. We’re going to go inside, and eat ourselves stupid with desserts and we are _all going to smile while we do it_. No-one is going to snipe or score points off anyone else. _Anyone_ who starts _anything_ will receive an urgent phone call and leave my house immediately. Does.  Everyone. Understand. Me?”

He deliberately eyeballs Stiles, Allison and Peter, like they’re the main problems, and Stiles shrugs. Dad may have a point.

“We can discuss this again, on another day when Ellie isn’t here. I think maybe, Derek and Chris and I can sort this out without anyone else’s input.”

Another significant glare for Stiles. Man. He’s totally getting picked on over here.

 

 

 

Somehow, they pull it together for dessert. It’s mostly down to Chris Argent, Stiles has to admit, who works pretty damn hard with Dad and Melissa McCall to get the day back on track, while Derek just pulls back into his shell. Scott wraps his arm around Allison and glares at Stiles and Derek until his mother kicks him on the ankle, hard, and gets him moving from the couch toward the dining room. Stiles spends some time doing deep yogic breathing in the kitchen, and then when he reappears bearing pie, he’s grinning like an idiot and determined Ellie won’t be able to sense the rage boiling underneath his ribcage.

Isaac joins in the sudden onset of lightheartedness like a boss. He pretends he doesn’t even _like_ sweet things and it’s not long before Ellie is giggling again, solemnly feeding Isaac spoonfuls from her spot on Derek’s lap. She makes sure he tries every different dessert on the table and watches his mock-mournful expression get worse with every delicious mouthful.

“Poor Isaac,” Stiles says sorrowfully, shaking his head. “All that horrible, evil sugar.” Derek is watching Ellie with a soft smile and Stiles reaches under the table to grasp his hand, hold it tightly. Across the table Chris Argent catches his eye and gives him a slow, even nod that’s somewhere between apology and acknowledgement. Stiles nods back. Every time he looks at this mess, he can see how much worse Chris could have made it. Dude is trying.

Then Argent lifts the Ben n Jerry's and passes it across the table. “You know, Ellie,” he says, dry as dust, “it’s possible that the reason Isaac isn’t liking that is because you forgot the ice-cream.” He shakes his head, as if to say, what’s the point, really, without ice-cream? “He should really try them all again, with it, just in case.”

“Good point,” Peter says from the doorway, coffee pot in hand. “And then, just to be sure, I’d suggest another round, but with whipped cream.”

Isaac’s groan this time is for real, and the entire room rocks with laughter.

 

 

 

The tension is almost entirely gone by the time the Argents are ready to leave, and Ellie hugs them both tightly at the door before disappearing upstairs for her bath, Derek following to find her some pyjamas and try to confine the small ocean of water to _just_ the bathroom. Stiles and Scott watch the taillights of the SUV pull away and Stiles starts a mental countdown in his head _, 3-2-1-_

“ _Not_ cool, dude,” Scott whirls on him fiercely.

Stiles steps back and shuts the door before he turns to face his oldest friend.

“You can’t talk to Allison like that,” Scott finishes. Behind him, in the doorway, Isaac and Stiles’ Dad are hovering with the worst stealth-skills ever.

“I can’t.” Stiles is calm. Utterly calm. That’s how he knows this is going to be bad. Because the only times he has ever felt like this were right at the worst possible moments. Trapped in the storeroom. Treading water. Standing by his mother’s grave.

“She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“But I have?”

“You yelled at her!”

“And I’m sure Allison, who has shot more than a few of us _with a crossbow_ , can handle it. She’s hardly a delicate flower, Scott.”

“She was so upset-”

“Oh no. Oh, no, we are _not_ doing this.” Stiles throws his hands up and stalks past Scott, past his Dad and Isaac, makes it almost all the way to the kitchen.

“You know, they’re not the bad guys here. They’ve actually been pretty cool about the whole thing.”

Stiles stops. Because on top of _all of this shit_ , on top of Ellie’s pale face and Derek’s stricken expression and the downward curve of her sweet little mouth as she whispered _am I_ _in the way_... now Scott is going to fucking _defend the Argents_.

“Really.” He turns. “Tell me all about it, Scott. Tell me what, exactly, have the Argents done that makes them the heroes here?” His tone of voice should have been enough to warn Scott, but apparently it was too late for that. Behind Scott he sees his Dad’s face, set and worried, like he’s watching an accident happen.

“They didn’t have to tell Derek about any of this, y’know. They could have just, like, packed up and left town with no-one any the wiser.”

“Scott-” Isaac begins, uneasy.

“And that makes sense to you, does it?” Stiles says, very calm. “That would have been a valid choice, in your opinion, for them to leave Derek out of it altogether, essentially kidnap a six-year old and raise her on a diet of lies with a side order of hatred.”

Scott blinks at him. This is clearly not a perspective he’s ever considered.

“Because it’s just Derek. Right?” Stiles spread his hands and shrugged, “It’s only _Derek_ , who you’ve never trusted, and never liked. What would it matter if Derek never knew he had a daughter. What would it matter if he spent the rest of his life alone. It’s _just Derek_ , after all.”

“That’s not-” Scott begins, and Stiles shoots him a scornful look.

“Careful, buddy,” he says, sick in the stomach. “Remember – I always know when you’re lying. Werewolf or not, I always know, _don’t_ I?”

“That’s not what I said, I- not what I was saying,” Scott replies, pale under his permanent tan.

“But it _is_ what you secretly think,” Stiles says, fists clenched, voice hard. “You think Derek is an asshole who’s somehow to blame for _all_ your problems. And you think I’m in the middle of the world’s most pathetic crush, but you keep on hoping that I’ll dump him sometime soon and you probably also think,” he takes a trembling breath, “that everything would have just been simpler and easier, _for you_ , if the Argents had just kept their mouths shut and never told Derek about Ellie.”

There’s a short, horrible silence.

“Right?”

“No,” Scott says, “that’s not- Stiles, I don’t-”

“No, Scott,” Stiles says, and he’s just done. “ _Enough_ bullshit. I’m not going to apologize to you for anything I said to the Argents tonight. No _way_ I am apologizing for sticking up for Ellie. I think Allison and Chris are great, I really do, but if they’re not going to protect Ellie from Victoria’s poison, then I am going to do whatever it takes to protect her _myself_.”

“Stiles-” his Dad begins.

“You should go,” Stiles says to Scott, and god, he wants to throw up. “You should really. You should go.” Go to fucking _Allison_ , he almost says.

He turns away, exhausted and very close to crying, and then, of course, that’s exactly when he spots Peter and Melissa, frozen in the kitchen.

Well, shit.

“I need some air,” Stiles says, exhausted, and grabs the first jacket he sees before he pushes out the back door and into the yard.

Scott, of course, just has to push his luck. He follows Stiles outside and slams the door behind him.

“Peter killed Kate,” he says, just getting stupider and stupider. “He _killed_ Allison’s _aunt_ and she sat down to Thanksgiving dinner with him-”

Stiles wheels on him so fast Scott actually takes two steps back. “Kate Argent killed the _entire fucking Hale family_ ,” Stiles hisses at him. “Gerard Argent screwed with Allison’s head so bad she helped him kidnap and torture Boyd and Erica. And you know who was next, don’t you, Scott? It was going to be _Gerard_ coming down to the basement to beat the crap out of me in the fucking basement if he hadn't collapsed. Instead I got lucky and Chris came down those steps and let us go instead. And _I_ sat down to Thanksgiving dinner with _them_. Derek and Peter are _sharing Ellie_ with _them_.”

Stiles takes one long, shaky breath. “Now I asked you to leave, and I meant it. I _don’t_ _want you here_ , Scott. You can’t be here, acting like Derek has to earn the right to even live on the same planet as Princess Allison Who Can Do No Wrong. I’m tired of it. I’m just really fucking tired of you thinking that everything in this world revolves around the two of you. I’ve let a lot of things go, for a really long time, but no more.”

Scott is staring at him, stunned and still angry.

He takes a deep breath. “I know this won’t change anything, I know you’ll always put her first. But this is where you realize once and for all, that things have changed for me, too. I won’t let you get away with this shit, and I won’t bite my tongue because, newsflash - _Ellie and Derek come first_.”

They stare at each other for a long, silent moment, and then Scott takes two backward steps before he whirls and disappears into the night.

Stiles tips his head back and stares up at the night sky. “Yeah. Happy Fucking Thanksgiving,” he says.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi - so, some clarification. In this I intended for most of the Season2 events to have happened, though some in slightly different order. Jackson was the kanima, but did not publicly die. He is recovering from the second bite at the start of this series. Gerard's cancer moved more quickly and he was therefore not able to see all his plans through, though he did manage to manipulate Allison enough to get her assistance with Erica and Boyd. Stiles was still kidnapped and dragged off to the basement, Gerard did not torture him, Chris, instead, stumbled onto the scene and let everyone go. Erica and Boyd ran off in the fear and confusion, Peter eventually found them and convinced them to come back.
> 
> I wasn't intending to rewrite Season 2, this was very specifically meant to be an exploration of family and pack, and how things might have turned out with a few small changes. (Well, maybe not so small- sorry, Ellie) So maybe when this is done, I'll go back through Parts 1 n 2 and try to clarify those references and avoid confusion.
> 
> Enjoy.

 

 

“Stiles,” Scott says, climbing in the window. “Wake up. Where is everybody?”

“Whuh?” he surfaces from a dream about donuts and for a moment it’s all so ordinary. “Scott?” he scrubs at his face, “Mmf, whaat? Ev’body... all went home.” And then he remembers, like ice water all over his body and he stiffens and jolts upright. “What are-”

“The Argents had a _huge_ fight,” the words are tumbling out on top of each other as Scott drags the window shut behind him. “I went ‘round to see Allison but I never went inside because they were screaming at each other. Chris must have told Allison’s mom she’s not allowed to see Ellie anymore because she just _lost_ it. She was – just, ranting, man, about slavering animals and- jeez, I couldn’t even _see_ her and she was scaring me. I could hear Allison upstairs crying, and Chris was telling Victoria to step back from Ellie, that she should spend more time on the business and get out of Beacon Hills for a while-”

“Scott,” Stiles interrupts, “what are you- why are you here?”

And for a moment Scott just blinks at him, like a big dumb dog.

“Because Victoria Argent is seriously pissed and she got in her car, where do you think she’s headed,” he hisses. “She thinks _Ellie_ is here, staying the night.”

That had been the original plan. But Stiles had been so- well. Messed up. Derek had bundled her up and gone home instead, left Stiles in a ball of misery, hating himself one minute and getting all self-righteous the next.

“She’s coming here?” Stiles says, half-falling out of bed in surprise. “To the _Sheriff’s_ house, _seriously?_ ”

“She’s lost it, man,” Scott says seriously. “I mean. I’ve seen, like, Erica throw a hissy fit, and my Mom is kinda scary when she wants to be but-”

“But neither of them is a psychotic bitch,” Stiles mutters, pulling on some jeans on over his boxers and shoving his feet into shoes as an afterthought. “Shit. Dad went in hours ago to cover the night shift.”

“I know.”

“So.” Stiles straightens and looks straight at Scott. “We’re gonna deal with this.”

Scott nods, serious. “Together.”

“Brains and brawn,” Stiles says, and that gets a faint smile from Scott.

“Asshole,” he says.

“Listen-” Stiles begins, and Scott sobers up suddenly.

“No, don’t – don’t apologize,” he says.

“Maybe I wasn’t going to,” Stiles says, eyebrow raised.

“You were hugging your apology pillow,” Scott says with a nod to the bed.

Stiles looks down. Right. _Shit_.

“Listen, man. You’re maybe... right about some of that. I’ve been a self-centred asshole. But. We can talk about it later, okay. You and me, this is. We’re still... cool. Right?” he ends that sentence with a lot less certainty than he started, and Stiles can’t help himself, his grudge just implodes.

“We’re still us,” Stiles says, and Scott grins.

“Yeah.”

Headlights appear at the top of the hill, still some blocks away. Two o’clock in the morning, after Thanksgiving? Yeah, that’s a sinister visitor, for sure. Stiles picks up his phone and glances at Scott. “We need backup?”

“They sell _guns_ , Stiles,” Scott says earnestly. “I’m thinking, yeah.”

Stiles hesitates, then holds out his phone. “Go ahead,” he says.

Scott’s look of surprised relief is totally worth everything. He doesn’t even listen to the conversation, just runs downstairs to fetch the utterly bizarre birthday present his Dad had left on his bed months ago. As he drags it out of the closet he can feel that background connection burst into life, Derek’s fear and rage surging to the fore and he glances up the stairs, irritated. “Way to deliver the bad news gently, Scott,” he chides.

He’s finishing up when he realizes there really should have been some kind of tell-tale flare of headlights in the driveway by now, unless Victoria Argent chooses super slow driving as an outlet for her rage. Stiles gets slowly to his feet and closes the closet door, dragging a plaid shirt on over his pyjama top as he glances up the stairs.

“Scott?” he says quietly. “Shouldn’t she be here by-”

There’s a choked noise from the top of the stairs and then Scott is tumbling down them, hands clapped over his ears and Stiles watches in horror when he lands in a heap, gasping and writhing.

Stiles is mid-step, heading for Scott when there’s movement from the living room and he thinks, _Stiles, you idiot, she circled ‘round to the back of the house_ , but far, far too late. Victoria tosses a smoking canister toward Scott who chokes and flinches back, and the gun in her other hand never wavers from Stiles. She steps around the couch and places herself off to the left, a safe distance from Scott but with an unwavering line of sight on Stiles.

In the back of his head he knows Derek can sense the surge of adrenaline in Stiles, knows the alpha is barrelling toward him through the night. _It’ll be all right_ , he thinks with a catch in his breathing. Ellie needs us. It _has_ to be all right.

“Good evening, boys,” Victoria Argent says. Then she smiles.

“Mrs Argent,” Stiles says as calmly as he can. “You really haven’t thought this through.” Though she’s thought it through far enough to have attached a freaking _silencer_ , he notices, so if there _is_ any shooting activity the neighbours aren’t going to be any the wiser.

He glances across, to where Scott is gasping on the staircase, trying to push up onto hands and knees and kick the fricking whatever-it-is away. It’s a weird flashback to asthmatic-Scotty, but he’s definitely improving as the smoke starts to diffuse, though he’s clearly still suffering some kind of hitch in his hearing, judging by the whimpering.

Fucking Argents. Werewolf mace, _seriously_.

“This was going to be a new start for us,” she’s saying, eyes glittering in the dim light. “Another child in the family, being there for each other, patching up Kate’s mistakes, filling the holes from all we’d lost-”

“Yeah, I get that,” Stiles says, though his skin is creeping. Using a six year old kid to fill the hole left by skeevy _Gerard Argent_ and his insano daughter _?_  He edges closer to Scott as he adds, “And it’s not easy, fighting about how to raise the young’uns, believe me I know-”

“You know _nothing_ ,” she spits, hands still steady on the gun. “You’re a teenager, playing house with a pack of beasts. You know nothing about codes, and commitment and making the tough decisions, child.”

“Okay, I call bullshit,” Stiles replies, suddenly sick of pandering to this bitch. “I know plenty about tough decisions, okay, I know about staying loyal to my best friend even when he went through some pretty frickin’ major changes including oh, _trying to kill me_ , I know about watching someone you love die and being able to do jack shit about it, and I know that your code is a convenient shield you hide behind when it suits you, that you cast aside at random. Where do I fit in your precious code, huh? I’ve never killed anyone. I don’t hunt you, so why am I on the wrong side of your gun, Victoria Argent?”

“I won’t shoot you unless you make me, by continuing to move toward Scott,” she says steadily, “and you know perfectly well I’m only aiming at you to make sure your rabid dog over there doesn’t rip my throat out.”

“Hey, Scott is _absolutely_ house-trained,” Stiles protests, and the look Scott shoots him for that as he drags himself upright has him grinning, he can’t fucking help it. He stops edging to the right, though. “Okay, so what’s your big plan? We stand here until the sun comes up and my Dad comes home? Because that sounds fine to me-”

“What happens is you put Ellie in my car and together we drive her across the state line. As long as your ‘pack’” she sneered, “stay the hell away from me, I won’t be forced to shoot you and traumatise that poor girl any further. When I get to where I’m going, you can hop on out and come home to your Daddy and your dog.”

“Lady, you are the worst with the racist jokes-” Stiles begins, and falters when she hisses at him. Like, _hisses_. She is a woman on the edge. “Okay,” he says, more slowly. “Just, tiny detail, Ellie isn’t here.”

“Don’t toy with me-”

“She’s not here,” Scott interrupts, voice raspy. “Really. Stiles and I had a fight after Allison left, and Derek took her home.” And that open, honest face works in their favour for once because Scott is clearly telling the truth.

“Fine,” she snarls. “Then _you_ will go and fetch Ellie and bring her back here.”

“Lady,” Stiles shakes his head. “You are really not thinking this through.”

“He’s right, Victoria,” Chris Argent says from behind her, and she snarls in thwarted fury and squeezes the trigger twice. Scott is just right _there_ , in front of Stiles, and then there’s snarling and bitten off shouts and Scott is so heavy, falling together, so, _so_ heavy, fuck, _Scott_ -

“Mom, _no_ ,” she hears Allison cry out, and then there’s a growl Stiles would recognize anywhere, Jesus God the relief-

“ _Derek_ ,” he sobs, can’t help it because his hands are wet and Scott is looking up at him, wide-eyed and shocked and so scared. Something smashes behind Stiles and Scott whimpers a little, like his ears have finally stopped hurting and now he can focus on-

“Oh God, _Scott_ ,” and Allison’s right there, pale and shaking as she rolls him off Stiles. Scott tries to smile for her as Stiles rips his shirt top to bottom, jeez, goddam the boy is in _lurve_ if he can even _think_ of smiling because that’s two shots, centre-mass and black veins spiralling out all over-

Behind Stiles there’s a shout, an enraged scream, bitten off and Chris Argent’s voice, pleading, “Victoria, _please_ -”

 _“Burn in hell,”_ she snarls, sounding more animalistic than any wolf Stiles has ever known. And then there’s another short, sharp scream and a clattering sound that Stiles really hopes is the gun hitting the floor. He turns his head and watches Derek surge into the living room, scooping up the gun as he passes it. In the kitchen Victoria is cradling her wrist and gasping, and a second later Boyd appears in the doorway and bears her to the ground with ruthless efficiency.

A strong shoulder bumps Stiles and he lets out a stuttering hiccup of relief. Derek. _DerekDerekDerek_. “Here,” he gruffs out, and there are bullets in his hands and blood dripping from a deep wound in his throat. He jerks the casings open with swift, sure fingers and Stiles throws himself toward the kitchen, the draining rack full of Thanksgiving dishes, hands scrabbling for something, _anything_ -

His fingers close around the gravy boat and when he runs back to the living room Derek dumps the powder in without a word. Allison is crouched over Scott, mumbling soft and frantic in his ear, tears dropping straight onto Scott’s cheek.

Another hand appears, it’s Chris, zippo lighter out and ready. The wolfsbane flares and Derek tips out half the ash and shoves it in with his fingers, deep into the first wound, the worst, the one near Scott’s fucking heart, his _heart_ , Scott, Scotty-

Scott arches up, teeth gritting and the sound that comes out of him is awful but Derek doesn’t pause. Stiles snatches the bowl from him and tips out the rest, copies Derek, and wow, _Horrible Sense Memories for a thousand, Alex_ , because that’s Scott’s blood, that’s the inside of Scott’s torso Stiles is touching right now-

Scott grinds out another horrible, choking sound and then just passes out, thank you merciful Zeus, and leaves them all kneeling and exhausted on the floor, in various stages of panting and crying and growling.

Stiles falls back, hands supporting his weight and he can’t help looking at Victoria, has to see the monster in the room. Boyd has her pressed to the floor with his full weight, remorseless, and is staring straight at Scott.

“It’s okay,” Derek grits out. He is crouched over Scott, one big hand resting on the bloody chest. “He’ll be all right.”

Derek glances up then. Stiles feels the low-level panic in the bond that hasn’t subsided, reads the question that’s written all over that beautiful face. _He took those bullets for you._

Stiles nods tiredly.

Derek’s face spasms, and he drops down closer to Scott’s body, fine tremors running through his body. He’s smelling Stiles on Scott, thinking how close it came. Stiles knows how bad the alpha wants to touch him right now, it’s thrumming in the back of his head, undeniable through the bond. But once they start it’ll be impossible to stop, and they’re not there yet.

“Ellie?” he says softly. Derek’s body twitches – God, it must have been near impossible for him to leave her with a threat like this looming – and its Boyd, who answers.

“Still asleep. Peter’s watching her. Erica too. Jackson and Isaac are running a perimeter, just in case.”

Boyd drags Victoria inside while they talk, and sets her in the corner where she can lean against the wall. Chris Argent gets up like he’s a hundred years old and closes the back door quietly. He leans against it for a moment, then turns to stare down at his wife. His face spasms for a second and then he reaches out, kicks the gun further away and then bends to pick up a long metal tube.

“What is that?” Stiles rasps out, morbidly curious. He’s trying not to think about how at some point he is going to have to call his Dad and describe all this shit.

“Modified flare,” Chris says dully. “Wolfsbane accelerant.”

“Nice,” Stiles says, but he’s too exhausted to really convey how fucked-up that is, or how bitter he’s feeling right now.

“I thought I got rid of them all,” Chris replies.

“First thing tomorrow,” Stiles says without thinking, “You and Allison set up a proper fucking inventory system.”

Allison shocks them all by barking out a sharp laugh. “Oh _Stiles_ ,” she says, laughing and crying all at once, reaching out to him with a bloody hand he grasps without hesitation. “Stiles. Promise me you won’t ever change.”

He huffs out a tired laugh of his own.

She leans in, presses her face to his cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, “Stiles, I’m so-”

“It’s okay, sshh,” he murmurs. “S’all okay. I’m sorry too.” He turns his head and stares down at his friend. He swallows. “We’ll figure it out, Allison. Long as we still got Scott, we’re fine.”

 

 

 

Derek walks over to Victoria with a slow, measured step that makes Stiles in-cred-ib-ly nervous. He’s not sure how this situation could get more messed up, but that’s never actually stopped it from happening before: see, Erica and Boyd and electricity – add one Stiles.

She is staring back at Derek, her face a mask of hatred and Stiles’ stomach churns to see it. He was at the wrong end of a gun from this woman not ten minutes ago, but that had been bloodless. A tactic. To have someone look at you like _this_ , like you were sewer scum. What does that do to Derek, every time he's on the receiving end of that?

“You’re leaving Beacon Hills,” Derek announces.

Victoria doesn’t blink. Allison’s body jerks, but she stays silent.

“You ever go near Ellie or Stiles again, you ever come _anywhere near_ a member of my pack,” Derek continues, voice getting softer and softer as he crouches in front of Victoria, still looming over her.

“What?” she snaps. “You’ll kill me? _Dog?”_

And that’s when Derek _smiles_.

Stiles scrambles to his feet in a hell of a hurry, throwing a panicked glance at Chris Argent who seems just... empty. Staring at his wife like she’s a stranger.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Derek says, slow and very certain. Like a sacred vow. “Not ever. Your life is safe from me, Victoria Argent. Do you know why?”

She stares at him, eyes wide. For the first time she looks truly frightened.

Stiles takes two slow steps forward, not sure what the hell is going on but needing to see it-

“Because I am never going to have to lie to my daughter for something as worthless as you.  I’m not going to cause the death of someone in her family, not going to be the reason she loses anyone else.”

Stiles can’t breathe.

“But Victoria,” and Derek’s voice drops, turns so soft it’s the most chilling thing Stiles has ever heard and she freezes, panting, total hindbrain reaction, predator and prey. He doesn’t need to look to know that Derek has shifted, eyes glowing blood-red, and the alpha noses slowly along Victoria’s pale throat.

“If you ever attempt to harm a member of my pack again...” he leans in until he’s right in her face, and his fangs brush lightly on her jawbone when he growls, “I. Will. _Bite._ You.”

She whimpers, pressing back into the wall, and the horror on her face is clear for everyone to see.

Chris Argent paces across the room to stand beside Derek. He stares down at his wife, face unreadable.

“I apologize,” he finally says, voice rusty. Clears his throat. “I’ll have Deaton set her wrist and then get her out of town. Probably out of the country.” He turns his head then and focuses on Allison, sorrowful. “You’ll be okay, honey. You stay with the Hales,” he says, and Stiles chokes on his next inhale. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Allison, chalk-white, nods once, sharp.

“Allison?” Victoria says. Her voice has lost all of its snap.

Allison’s mouth compresses and she meets her mother’s gaze with a hard, angry look. “Scott has never hurt anyone,” she chokes out. “And Stiles isn’t even-” she has to stop for a breath and then says, thready and thin, “Did you think about Ellie at all? About how much she loves Stiles?” Her eyes flick to her mother’s face and then she averts her gaze, turns back to Scott with a strangled sob.

Low-voiced, Chris says to Boyd, “Can you help me get her to the car?” And the two of them level Victoria to her feet, drag her out of the kitchen. She keeps her terrified gaze on Derek the entire time, right up until the door closes behind them.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended for this to be the final chapter, but I'm not happy with the ending and so decided to split it. We should be out of the woods within a few days!  
> Also, finally: porn!

 

 

When Scott’s eyes finally open, the first face he sees is a half-naked Derek, which is probably not at all what Scott had been hoping for, and Stiles can’t help the strangled laugh that accompanies the thought. But all amusement dies when he sees what Derek does next.

Their eyes lock, alpha and beta. Derek curls his fingers around Scott’s wrist and draws the beta's arm up, up, until Scott’s hand is _wrapped around Derek’s throat_. Behind Stiles, there is a shocked exhalation from Boyd, and in his peripheral vision Allison raises a trembling, bloody hand to her mouth.

Holy. Oh, wow. The significance of that. The vulnerable position Derek is putting himself in-

Scott is mouth-open-staring at Derek. Derek’s hand presses down on Scott’s, knuckles whitening for a long, silent moment before he husks out, “Thank you.”

Scott continues with the staring.

“ _Thank_ you,” Derek says again, low and near-broken. “For Stiles.”

Stiles is trembling.

Scott says nothing. He and Derek keep up the wolfy staring, and just when Stiles is starting to wonder if anyone is ever going to break the silence, Scott slowly, slowly curls up to sitting. It puts him even closer to Derek, faces only inches apart.

And then Scott says, “I think it might be a two-man job, keeping him safe.” And tips his head forward enough to touch his forehead to Derek’s, just for a second.

Derek huffs out a broken laugh at that, and the two of them kind of... unravel, reclaiming their usual personal space and slightly awkward body language. Allison is all up in Scott’s business the moment Derek leans back, of course.

“Hey,” Stiles manages to choke out, and drags his shirt up, “I’ll have you know I totally played that as safe as possible.” Everyone in the room stares at the Kevlar vest his Dad bought him, amidst much muttering and eye-rolling

Derek shakes his head just as Scott says, “I know, man, but.” He looks sheepish.

It’s Derek that says calmly, “He couldn’t take the risk.”

 

 

Stiles makes the call to his Dad while Allison and Boyd clean up the house, roll up the rug and take it out back and mop up the rest of Scott’s blood and Derek finishes getting dressed in the spare clothes he keeps at the Stilinski house. It says a lot about wolf packs and Stiles’ general level of panic that he hadn’t particularly noticed Derek’s nudity earlier. Derek had obviously run the whole way in his alpha form, leaving Boyd in his wake. “Yeah, we’re all okay, Dad, I promise. It was uh, a near thing but Scott totally saved the day, so.”

“I’m glad to hear you two are...”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, husky. He turns, then and locks eyes with Derek. The alpha is listening intently, for everything. The Argent SUV pulling away, Scott’s laboured breathing, Stiles jagged heartbeat.

“Listen, I’ll see you in the morning and tell you the whole horrible story then, all right?” he says, and his Dad sighs.

He’s going to be even more pissed when he finds out Victoria is essentially getting away with a home invasion, but the pack simply can’t afford to keep on appearing in police reports, even as victims. They feature too much as it is, anyway, if life keeps going like this someone will notice. Someone bigger than the Sheriff’s department will come to town to investigate.

“I’ll look forward to it,” Dad says, aggravated and grateful all at once.

Boyd, Scott and Allison pile into Victoria’s abandoned car and head back to the Hale house. Not one of them suggests Stiles and Derek accompany them. Derek is practically vibrating with possessiveness by now.

The taillights recede in the distance and Stiles closes the front door, falls back against it with a shuddering gasp. A half-second later he’s engulfed.

“Stiles,” Derek whispers.

“I know,” he half-whines, feeling the terror and the want unlock in that place at the back of his head where Derek’s emotions live, where Derek has been holding it all back. “I know, fuck, babe, I _know_ I didn’t, I-”

“Get this off,” Derek is whining, scrabbling at Stiles’ shirt and the Kevlar beneath, “off, _off_ , I can’t-”

Stiles drags his shirt over his head and tears at the straps, half sobbing at how desperate he feels.

“I can’t smell you properly, the fucking vest,” Derek’s shirt disappears and when the vest hits the floor he wraps himself around Stiles and starts for the stairs. Stiles hooks his legs around Derek’s hips and mouths at his cheek, his ears.

“I can still smell her, the wolfsbane, the blood-”

“Upstairs,” Stiles pants, achingly hard. Upstairs, in his room, just familiar scents, the two of them and sex. He’s fumbling with his fly as Derek stumbles through the door to the bed, “God, hurry.”

“I need, I need-” Derek tears his boots off and shoves out of his jeans, eyes wild and Stiles rolls over onto his belly and surges toward the nightstand. He knows what Derek will do when presented with that picture, yup, sure enough his jeans and boxers are yanked down his legs even as he fumbles for the lube-

“Jesus,” he hisses at the full-body contact as Derek lowers his naked body to cover Stiles. “Oh shit, just, here-” He shoves the tube at Derek and closes his eyes, shaking with need. Things could have gone so wrong for either one of them, for anyone in the house tonight. Bullets and wolfsbane and flares.

One slick finger slides inside and he lets out a choked sound as Derek leans close and wraps his free arm around the entire expanse of Stiles’ waist, holding him close.

“Stiles,” Derek groans against smooth bare skin, warm breath flowing over the small of Stiles’ back as he works him open, swift and thorough and Stiles cants his hips up as best he can, so damn hungry, desperate like he hasn’t been since the first time.

“Derek, come _on_ -”

“Can’t hurt you, love, just, I won’t hurt you, never.”

He half-sobs at that, at the low-grade terror he can hear in the alpha’s voice. “I know, baby, I know you won’t.”

“Stiles.”

“Now, now, God, _please-_ ”

And Derek slides into him on a long, sobbing gasp, the kind of sound Derek only ever makes when he’s on the edge, like he’s still afraid of being mocked the way Kate probably did, after, like Stiles even _could_ because he whines, loud and unashamed as the hot length splitting him just right, god, opening greedily to draw Derek close.

“Yeah, yeah, oh oh shit, babe,” he mumbles, arches his back to take it and tilts his head on instinct, knowing Derek will focus on the long pale length of his throat.

“Stiles,” Derek says, like a prayer, and for a moment they are locked in stillness.

“Derek,” he grits out a second later. “Move. Do it.”

He can feel Derek trembling behind him, uncertain, and Stiles clenches around him.

“Don’t be gentle,” he says, “I don’t want gentle, Derek. I want to _feel_ it. Make me-”

But he’s broken Derek’s reserve with that, the alpha makes a wild noise and starts to move and Stiles is lost, spiralling into the need and the fear and the rage and he lets go, moves with Derek and begs for it in a thousand different ways, in the tilt of his hips and the clawing of his fingers and the clutch of his ass and the words spilling from his lips. Derek fucks into him like he’ll die if he doesn’t, one strong hand on Stiles’ shoulder and another on his hip, anchoring him to earth until he’s ready to fly away.

Thank God the house is empty because they are loud and wild and desperate for each other and Stiles has no idea how long they move together, wrapped around and inside and all over each other, all of their emotions ripping free of the bond and Stiles never knew before, never really understood how deep it ran for Derek, what he feels for Stiles.

“You love me,” he pants without meaning to. He can feel it, he knows, he fucking _knows_ without doubt, will never wonder again if this is some kind of 60/40 split, or maybe 70/30, if he’s some kid fooling himself someone like Derek could ever feel for Stiles, the way Stiles feels about him.

“Always,” Derek vows, low and breathless. “Always, Stiles, _always_ ,” and just like that, he comes on a startled shout, undone and exposed and utterly _safe_.

He clenches hard around Derek and the alpha freezes, trembling at Stiles back, both hands at his hips now, grinding them together like he can’t ever get close enough and in the midst of his ecstasy Stiles feels it, the jerks of uncontrolled pleasure that run through his lover, the low, trembling groan that Derek can’t hold back.

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

They’re a glorious, tangled mess on sweaty sheets, and Stiles is patting gently at Derek’s hands, which he finds endlessly fascinating. The claws, where do they come from? How do they even-

Derek makes a soft amused huffing noise, which is how Stiles knows his curiosity is bleeding through the bond. He kisses Derek’s knuckles instead and draws that fascinating hand up to rest on Stiles’ cheek.

“I never thought she’d do that,” Stiles finally says. “Victoria, I mean.”

Derek tenses automatically at the name and then forces himself to relax. “None of us did. Obviously.”

“No, I mean.” He hesitates, then shrugs and just says it. “I never thought she’d really _want_ Ellie. I figured she was just going along with Chris, to make him happy, and stirring up shit for us just because she could. I never thought she’d actually want to _take_ her. Or even care enough to mess with her head, to be honest.” There’s a sharp spike of rage at the memory.

“Because she’s mine?” Derek asks, having no trouble following Stiles’ train of thought.

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, say she _does_ successfully kidnap her from a pack of werewolves who also have law enforcement on their side. What the hell was she going to do if one day Ellie turned?”

There’s a long silence and Stiles winces because, yeah. Pretty sure the answer to that is obvious.

“You’ve noticed the scar on Ellie’s elbow?”

Stiles frowns. “What?” he shifts enough to see Derek’s face. “Yeah, of course.”

“Never wondered what it was from?”

“Wondered plenty,” he says, “Ellie said she’d always had it, couldn’t remember getting it.”

“There’s an old legend that says you can test for a born wolf, see if they’ll one day change.”

Stiles gapes at him. “What?”

“You use a silver fork, three-pronged, to draw blood on the child’s first full moon.”

“You are _shitting_ me.” Stiles thinks of the three holes, forming a perfect triangle on the inside of Ellie’s elbow, like she’d fallen on an oddly shaped barbecue fork. _“Kate?”_

“She wouldn’t have put a potential wolf into the system without safeguards,” Derek says. “They’re bound to secrecy as much as we are. I’m guessing she didn’t want to take the chance that the legend was bullshit – how many chances would they have had to test it, after all?

“So that’s why Ellie wasn’t up for adoption,” Stiles says slowly.

Derek nods. “Simple enough for Kate to come back in ten years or so and snatch her, then wait and see if she changed when she hit puberty.”

“Holy shit,” Stiles says. “So. You think Victoria was counting on her being fully human.”

He shrugs. “They’d have had access to the same information. I bet if we asked Chris, that legend would be in their bestiary.”

Stiles pushes up to sitting. “That makes- _shit_. That makes _so much sense_.” He turns his head and stares down at his love. “ _Is_ she fully human?” he asks. He’s never brought it up before. Neither has Derek. He hesitates for a long time and then says softly, “I mean, Andrew and Emma must have smelt different to you?”

“Not until puberty hit.”

Stiles blinks. “But. So you can’t tell?”

Derek gives a little headshake. “Can’t tell. Don’t care.”

Stiles keeps his eyes on the alpha. “Don’t care?”

“Don’t care,” he says calmly, voice very even.

“You don’t want to... expand the pack? Carry on the Hale name?”

Derek reaches up to cup Stiles’ cheek. “She’s already pack. Same as you.” Stiles smiles a little at the reminder, the reassurance. “Don’t care about legacies. And the pack is strong and stable, it’ll expand at its own pace, or not.”

Stiles searches his face, looking for signs of uncertainty. This has maybe, kept him awake a little at night. He’s not a wolf. He’s not a woman. He can’t bear Derek any born-wolves to carry on the name.

Derek, of course, can read every bit of that on his face. “Stiles,” he says on a soft sigh. “My life was empty. And then, when it suddenly wasn’t empty, it was full of blood and _more_ loss and betrayal.”

Stiles places his hand over Derek’s, pressing it to soft human skin.

“And then, suddenly, I had a pack. Shaky, but real. And then I had... a friend. Someone I cared for.” Stiles swallows. “And then I had someone I _loved_ , someone who _loved me back_.” There are tears in Derek’s eyes. “And then _Ellie_ ,” his voice cracks. “You can’t imagine how that-”

Stiles wraps himself around Derek, holding on tight. The alpha's hands slide over his back, giving reassurance as he takes it. After a while one hand slides up to cup the back of Stiles’s head, caressing.

“Stiles,” he croaks out, “I’m more than happy with everything I have right now. It’s more than I ever expected, more than I ever would have asked for. As long as I can keep you both happy, keep you both _safe_ , I’ll count myself a lucky man, and much blessed.”

And there’s that surge, again, through the bond, remembered terror, and Stiles shoves up until he’s sitting astride Derek. “Babe,” he says, warning, but it’s too late.

“I _wasn’t there_.” Derek’s hands fall to his hips, clutching.

“It’s okay.”

“No.” He takes a swift breath, “I wasn’t there and you were- a gun, Stiles, she _held a gun on you_ and I couldn’t-”

“Babe, I was careful, I swear I knew you were coming I could feel you-”

“-shot at you, she _took shots at you_ -”

“And the pack had me. Right?” This is doing no good, he stops and cups Derek’s face in his hands. “Derek, listen to me. The pack was there for me. Scott protected me, and we took care of him and _that’s how it works_ , right?”

Derek just stares at him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You were with Ellie, you were with _our daughter_ and you made sure she was safe first, and that was right, Derek. That was exactly right. She’s just a baby and it’s our job to keep her safe. Always. Ellie first.”

For the first time Derek’s eyes clear and he takes a deep breath. “I-”

 _“Ellie,”_ Stiles says it like a talisman. “You were with Ellie. Like you should be. If it’s down to me and her, it has to be her, Derek. “

The conflict in his eyes is terrible.

“Derek.”

“I don’t, I can’t-”

“If it was a choice between you and her, who do I choose?”

Derek is breathing fast.

“Tell me. Derek. Who do I-”

“ _Ellie_. You _know_ that-”

“Same goes,” Stiles says softly, with finality. “You did everything right tonight. You did _everything you could._ ”

“What if it’s not enough?” he chokes out, and _oh_ , Stiles had totally seen that coming. “What if, one day, I’m too late?”

“Then you’ll be hurt and grieving,” Stiles says simply. They stare at each other. “And you’ll still have Ellie and Peter and the pack and you’ll go on.”

_“No-”_

“This is life, babe. I know you know that,” and Stiles is crying now, petting gently at Derek’s face. He takes a deep breath and forces his voice to steady. “You’ve already lost way more than one person should, and it kills me to think about it, but it could happen. And I’m not going to lie to you, not now, not ever. I could have a car accident. I could be walking around with an aneurysm in my head or take a bad reaction to medication.”

_“Don’t.”_

“And it would gut you the same way it would gut me if you died.” Stiles’ hands clench for a second just saying it.

“But you have more than just me, now. So you would drag yourself out of it eventually. And you would cling to Ellie and she would cling to you and you would both go on with your lives.”

They’re clutching each other tight now.

“And one day you would, you would find that you were feeling... okay again. And that would be the day you would know that instead of being a wound, I’d become a part of you instead. Like a scar. Lots of great memories of my awesomeness and hot sex and the many, many times I rescued your alpha ass-”

Derek manages a sobbing half-laugh at that.

“And you would breathe again because having me be a part of you would feel right. Not as good as if I was there, with you, but good. Like maybe you hadn’t lost as much as you thought. And Ellie would see you doing better and the two of you would talk about me, stuff no-one else knew, no-one else would remember. And it would totally, _totally_ have been worth it.”

He takes a breath and just goes for it, tries to head off that second argument before it even starts. “Just the way stuff like tonight is hard and scary and dangerous – but still, to me, _totally worth it_. I’d face a thousand Victoria Argents, Derek, to have you in my arms like this.”

There’s a long silence, then. Stiles' mind is racing, marshalling his arguments. No way is Derek pulling some kind of I'm-breaking-up-with-you-for-your-own-good _bullshit._ Derek is staring at Stiles, his face unreadable. His hands are resting on Stiles’ thighs, fingers moving constantly.

Finally, Derek takes a huge breath and just seems to let go of whatever was filling up his head. His hands shift, grip firmly and he says - that _asshole,_ he says, “You really talk a lot.”

“Babe,” Stiles says, half-laughing in relief. He leans in and kisses Derek lovingly, wraps himself around the alpha, feeling the bond blow wide open at the back of his mind like it so rarely does. Safety and passion entwined. Then he sits back and smiles, wide and obnoxious. “All those years ahead of us – you have _no idea_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alllllrighty. Here we are at the end. Kinda.   
> I have some one-shots in this verse already written, sorta timestamps, I guess. which I might put out there one of these days. But not for a while.   
> Thanks to everyone who followed this live, this has been one of the oddest stories I've ever written, I really appreciate the trust or curiosity or whatever the hell it was that brought you here.


End file.
